Category: English

I was about five seconds away from dumping my sad, discounted Caesar salad over my co-worker’s head. Madison had been running her mouth for ten minutes, and frankly, I’d had enough. She was currently trashing the intern she’d just started dating, calling him a “total mama’s boy,” and—get this—trying to pawn him off on me. “I’m serious, Cass,” she said, picking at her manicure. “He has to ask his mother for everything. He literally FaceTimed her to ask what he should order for dinner on our first date. The internet says guys like that are a death trap. If you marry into a family like that, you’re just signing up to be a free live-in maid for some overbearing old lady.” Then came the kicker. She smirked at me, her eyes glinting with a mean sort of pity. “Actually, since you grew up in that group home, you never really had the whole ‘motherly love’ experience, right? You’d probably love catering to a demanding old woman. It’d be like a hobby for you.” I felt the blood rush to my face. My grip tightened on the plastic container. But just as I was about to let the ranch dressing fly, a line of glowing text flickered across my vision. [CASS, GIRL, DON’T DO IT! DON’T BLOW THIS! That ‘mama’s boy’ is the only son of the richest woman in the city. She’s insanely generous, fiercely protective, and worth billions!] Before I could blink, another one scrolled past: [The ‘old lady’ is only ‘demanding’ because she insists on buying her daughter-in-law penthouses and custom Porsches. She treats her son’s partners like her own flesh and blood!] And a third: [Relax, this mean girl is just a stepping stone. Once the billionaire mom finds out her son switched girls, she’s going to go all-in on Cass. We love a ‘Rich Mother-in-Law’ trope!] I froze. The salad stayed in the bowl. Slowly, I lowered it and pushed it toward Madison with a tight, serene smile. “You know what, Madison? You’re right. I’ve always wanted to be part of a family. Send me his contact info.” It wasn’t about the money. Not really. It was just that, more than anything in the world, I really, really wanted a mom. 01 To break the ice after he accepted my request, I scrolled through Adrian’s social media. His latest post was from three minutes ago. The location tag was a 24-hour emergency vet. It was a photo of a silver British Shorthair in an oxygen tank, tangled in tubes and wires. “Emergency! Snowy has had a sudden reaction and needs an immediate blood transfusion. Type A. The blood bank is empty. If anyone has a healthy cat nearby, please help. I’ll do anything.” A line of text drifted past my eyes: [The Male Lead refuses to use blood from ‘blood farms.’ He’s such a good guy. How could the other girl give him up?!] Blood farms. The thought made my stomach turn. I looked down at my big, goofy orange tabby, Marmalade, who was currently face-deep in a tin of premium tuna. I snapped a photo and sent it to Adrian. “My cat is twelve pounds and healthy as a horse. I’m ten minutes away. We’re coming.” When I arrived at the clinic, Adrian was slumped on a plastic bench, head in his hands. He looked like he was vibrating with tension. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. His high-end suit was rumpled, his tie loosened as if he’d been clawing at his throat. “You’re the one?” he asked, his voice a gravelly wreck. I handed him the carrier. “Save the cat first.” The next thirty minutes were a blur of needles, tests, and the rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine. I sat a few feet away from him. He kept glancing at the swinging doors of the surgery suite, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees. A nurse finally stepped out. “The cross-match is a success. Type A. We’re starting the transfusion now.” Adrian stood up so fast his knees slammed into the bench with a sickening thud. He didn’t even flinch. He strode over to me, fumbling with his phone. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. Let me venmo you ten thousand for the trouble—more if you need it. For the ‘nutritional recovery’ of your cat.” His hands were shaking so hard he kept mistyping. I reached out and gently pushed his phone down. “No.” “This is a life-saving favor,” he insisted. “I have to pay you.” I pulled Marmalade into my lap, stroking his thick orange fur. “I’m doing this for good karma for my cat. If I take your money, it taints the kindness. Marmalade is happy to help a friend.” Adrian went still, staring at me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The “Surgery in Progress” light flickered off. The vet walked out, pulling off his mask. “He’s out of the woods. We’ll keep him overnight for observation, but he’s going to be fine.” Adrian let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He leaned against the wall, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders. “I owe you everything,” he said, his gaze softening as it landed on me. “Wait… why did you add me on WeChat earlier today?” My phone screen lit up. It was Madison. A string of toxic messages: “Well? Did he ask his mommy where to take you for coffee yet?” “Only a weirdo like you could handle a freak like that.” I didn’t have a privacy screen. Adrian’s eyes tracked the words. I didn’t try to hide it. I’ve never seen the point in lying when the truth is right there. “Madison recommended you to me,” I said. “She told me you were a ‘mama’s boy.’ Said you couldn’t breathe without her permission and that whoever married you would just be a glorified servant.” Adrian’s face turned to stone. The air in the hallway turned cold. The glowing text flared up: [CANNON FODDER IS SO STUPID! You can’t just say that to his face! You’ve ruined it!] [RIP Cass. Her IQ is literally zero. Who tells a guy he’s a mama’s boy on the first meeting?!] My heart skipped a beat as I watched his expression harden. “Just take it as a joke,” I added quickly, trying to smooth the edges. Adrian looked down, silent. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, he let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. He pulled out his phone, found Madison’s contact, and hit Block and Delete without a second thought. “She’s half-right,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “I do share everything with my mother. I value her opinion more than anyone’s. But my mother is not the kind of woman who wants a servant. She wants a daughter.” He took a step closer, invading my personal space in a way that felt strangely grounding. “You’re honest. And you’re kind,” he said, his voice sincere. “Can I officially ask you out? For real this time?” I stood there, my brain stalling. “I’m not doing this to spite her,” he added. “I’m doing this because I think you’re incredible.” The text in the air went haywire: [Wait, this isn’t the script! He’s supposed to walk away in a huff!] [Why is he into her?! This wasn’t in the spoilers!] I watched the chaos of the comments and then looked at Adrian. Rich, kind, loves his cat, and has a billionaire mother who supposedly wants to spoil her son’s girlfriend? I bit back a smile and looked into his hopeful eyes. “I’d like that,” I said. 02 Adrian’s way of courting me was clumsy but relentless. Every morning at 7:00 AM, a hot oat milk latte and a fresh almond croissant appeared at the office front desk for me. At noon, a thermal bag arrived at my cubicle containing a three-course meal—perfectly balanced, with fruit pre-sliced. At 6:00 PM, his car was idling at the curb, rain or shine. Madison watched this for a week, her face turning a sour shade of green. “Is he for real? All this for a mama’s boy?” I ignored her and took a sip of the slow-simmered beef stew Adrian had sent. It was still the perfect temperature. Adrian’s “mama’s boy” traits were exactly as advertised. He’d FaceTime me to ask what I wanted for lunch. He’d FaceTime me to decide which movie we should see. He even held up his phone in a bakery once so his mom could help him choose which flavor of cake I’d like best. One afternoon, while we were at a high-end mall, he pulled out his phone again. I leaned into the frame and waved. “Hi, Mrs. Norton.” The woman on the screen froze, then her face broke into a massive, radiant smile. “Oh! Is this Cassidy? Adrian hasn’t stopped talking about you! You’re even prettier than he said!” She looked to be in her early fifties, elegant but with warm crinkles around her eyes. Her smile wasn’t the polite, icy grin of a socialite—it was genuine. It reached her eyes. “Sweet girl, have you eaten? It’s getting chilly out, make sure you’re wearing enough layers, okay?” Sweet girl. My hand tightened on the phone. No one had ever called me that. Not with that tone. After the call ended, Adrian noticed my eyes were rimmed with red. “What’s wrong?” he panicked, hovering over me. “Did she say something? She can be a bit much, I know, I’ll talk to her—” “No,” I whispered, blinking hard. “It’s just… I grew up in the system. I don’t have parents. I don’t even know what they looked like.” The text in the air exploded. [An orphan and a billionaire? The mom is going to throw a check at her face and tell her to get lost.] [Old money families hate ‘nobodies.’ Just wait for the rejection.] [There’s no way a CEO mother accepts a girl with no background.] Adrian didn’t say a word. We were standing in the middle of a crowded atrium, surrounded by the noise of shoppers and mall music. He reached out and gently brushed a stray tear from my cheek. “The fact that you grew up to be who you are, all on your own… that makes you more impressive than anyone I know.” That weekend, he told me he was taking me home for dinner. As the car turned into a long, tree-lined driveway in a gated community, I knew I was in over my head. The lawn was manicured to perfection, leading up to a sprawling limestone estate with a fountain out front. “This is… your house?” “Yeah.” I looked down at the $20 fruit basket in my lap. I’d bought it at the local grocery store. It felt pathetic. My palms started to sweat. When the car stopped, I couldn’t move. Adrian came around to open my door, but I gripped the basket like a life raft. “Adrian, this gift is… it’s embarrassing. I should have gotten something else.” “My mom doesn’t care about that stuff.” Before he could finish, the massive front doors swung open. A woman in a stunning silk wrap dress and heels came flying out. I recognized the smile from the FaceTime call. She bypassed her own son entirely and pulled me into a suffocatingly warm hug. “My darling! You’re finally here!” “Mom, don’t scare her—” Adrian started. Violet Norton didn’t even look at him. “Hush, you.” She pulled back, looking me up and down with a frown. “You’re too thin. Are you eating enough?” Then, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and pressed them into my hand. “There’s a penthouse downtown. Three thousand square feet, fully furnished, top-of-the-line everything. It’s yours. Just a little ‘welcome to the family’ gift. Tell me if you need anything else.” I turned into a statue. “Mrs. Norton, I… I can’t. This is too much—” “Call me Mom,” she said, her expression turning stern. “’Mrs. Norton’ is for strangers. If you don’t take them, it means you don’t think I’m doing a good job as a mother.” The glowing text went silent. […] [I have nothing to say.] [Wait, so the mother-in-law is actually a saint? This isn’t a trap?] Standing at the door of a mansion, holding a cheap fruit basket and the keys to a multi-million dollar condo, my nose crinkled and the tears started falling. I looked a mess. Violet pulled me back into her arms, patting my back as if I were a wounded bird. “Oh, honey, don’t cry. You’re home now.” Twenty-three years. It took twenty-three years for someone to say that to me. I gripped the keys and managed a shaky, broken whisper. “Thanks… Mom.” I was never letting this family go. 03 Monday morning, Adrian’s car was parked in front of my office like clockwork. He hopped out to open my door and swapped my regular coffee for a thermos of herbal tea his mother had insisted on brewing for me. Madison came charging out of the building, intercepting us. “Adrian! Can we talk? I was just being immature before—” Adrian didn’t even give her a glance. He ushered me toward the entrance, leaving Madison standing on the sidewalk, her face flushing a deep, humiliated red. Suddenly, a line of gold text flashed: [DON’T GET TOO COZY! The ‘Childhood Friend’ returns today! She’s fragile, she’s sickly, and she’s here to wreck the relationship!] I stumbled slightly. A childhood friend? But the reality was nothing like the comments predicted. Her name was Gia. She’d been abroad for years receiving treatment for a chronic condition. She was soft-spoken and sweet. When we met, she grabbed my arm excitedly. “Adrian said you were special. I’ve been dying to meet the girl who finally tamed him!” Adrian stood by, looking completely relaxed. “Gia’s like a sister to me. She’s had a rough time with her health, so I hope you guys can be friends.” There was no drama. No “it should have been me” glares. Gia even started stopping by my office for lunch. We talked about skincare and gossip; she brought me snacks from Europe, and I showed her the best local hole-in-the-wall spots. The comments were quiet for a few days. But Madison wasn’t. I didn’t realize she’d seen me enter my passcode. I didn’t realize how long she’d been watching. That afternoon, I had a meeting on the 17th floor and left my phone at my desk. When I came back forty minutes later, my screen was lit up. It was open to my chat with Gia. The last message sent from my account read: “Gia, I found this amazing hidden cafe on the B3 level of the building. Come meet me!” Gia had replied with a heart emoji: “On my way!” B3. The entire building knew the B3 basement had been abandoned for two years. The lights were broken, and there was zero cell service. My heart plummeted. I reached for my phone to call her, to tell her it wasn’t me— A massive red block of text slammed into my vision: [YES! THE SCHEME IS SET! The Mean Girl dropped the fire shutters! The Childhood Friend has severe claustrophobia and asthma! She’s a goner, and Cass is the prime suspect!] The blood drained from my face. I didn’t even grab my bag. I sprinted for the stairs, skipping steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. The elevator was too slow. I flew down the concrete stairwell from the 12th floor. My legs felt like jelly, and I slammed my knee into a railing, but I didn’t stop. Gia has asthma. Closed space. No signal. Alone. She could die. When I hit B3, the lights were out. The only glow came from a flickering green emergency sign. The heavy iron fire shutters had been triggered, sealing the hallway shut. From behind the metal door, I heard it. A faint, wet wheeze. “Gia!” I screamed, pounding on the metal. “Gia, can you hear me?!” No answer. Only the sound of someone struggling for air. I lunged for the nearby fire station and smashed the glass with my bare hand. Shards sliced into my palm, blood slicking my wrist, but I didn’t feel it. I grabbed the heavy fire extinguisher and swung it like a sledgehammer at the lock of the shutter. Every strike sent a jar of pain up my arm. My grip was slipping because of the blood, so I wiped my hand on my shirt and swung again. The seventh hit, the lock groaned. The eleventh hit, it snapped. I threw the extinguisher aside and shoved the shutters up with everything I had. Gia was collapsed on the concrete, her lips tinged blue, her chest barely moving. I dropped to my knees, ignored the searing pain in my palms, and started CPR while fumbling for my phone to call 911. “B3 basement… asthma attack… she’s not breathing… hurry!” Compressions. Breaths. Compressions. I don’t know how long I did it. My arms went numb. Finally, Gia let out a ragged, whistling gasp. She was breathing. The paramedics arrived minutes later. And so did Adrian. He looked at Gia on the stretcher, his face a mask of horror. “What happened?!” I opened my mouth to explain, but a sharp voice cut through the air. “It was her!” Madison pushed through the crowd, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I saw her! I saw the messages on her phone luring Gia down here! She was jealous of how close Gia and Adrian were. She tried to kill her!” She turned to Adrian, tears streaming down her face. “Adrian, I tried to tell you. Someone from her background… she’s not as innocent as she looks!” The whispers started immediately. “She tried to kill someone for a paycheck?” “Typical orphan behavior. No morals.” Adrian took my phone. He scrolled through the messages, his hand shaking. “Did you send this?” he asked, his voice low and vibrating with hurt. “No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Then how do you explain this?” Madison sobbed. “Look at her hands! They’re covered in blood! She probably locked the door herself and then played the hero when she realized she’d get caught!” Adrian closed his eyes. He handed the phone back to me without another word and climbed into the ambulance with Gia. As the doors slammed shut, he didn’t look back. I stood in the dim light of the basement, my hands dripping red. The comments flooded back: [The perfect frame-up! Cass is done for!] [She saved the girl but lost the guy. Talk about a backfire.] I looked down at my bleeding palms. The siren faded into the distance.

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The cold, mechanical voice echoed in my skull just as my fingers tightened around the jagged edge of broken glass. I was ready to end it all. [Tragic Narrative Arc Complete. Host preparing for extraction to the Prime Reality.] Five years. I had been trapped in this frozen hellscape—the so-endured Winter Sanctuary—for five long years. To ensure their survival, I was sold into the subterranean labor wards. I wore an iron collar around my neck. I spent my days on my knees doing the most degrading, back-breaking work imaginable. I lost two toes to the frostbite. If I displeased the overseers in the slightest, they would drag me by my hair into the freezing water tanks until my lungs burned. But now, my fiancé, Todd, casually unzipped his heavy thermal coat. “If you hadn’t messed with the climate control and given Evie pneumonia, we wouldn’t have had to leave you down here to learn your place,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable. “You’ve finally learned your lesson, haven’t you, Caroline?” My eyes widened, hollow and unblinking. Then my brother, Declan—who had lost an arm saving me three years ago in this very simulation—walked over. Both of his arms were perfectly intact. “Evie has a kind heart,” Declan said, adjusting his pristine cuffs. “She’s already forgiven you. Just be obedient from now on.” In the corner, the figures of my parents, who had mutated into the infected undead just months ago, nonchalantly wiped the black sludge from their mouths. They looked entirely human again. “Letting you lose a leg to the cold was a necessary punishment,” my mother said softly. “You can’t go around scheming to hurt Evie anymore.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. All of this. All of this was because Evie caught a cold? Something inside me snapped. A wet cough racked my chest, and a spray of dark blood hit the icy floor. The world faded to a suffocating black. 1 When I woke, the first thing I saw was a face of flawless, porcelain skin. Evie sat at the edge of my bed, her lips curled in faint disgust. “You’ve been somewhat manageable these past few years,” she said, examining her manicured nails. “So I decided to let you come back. But if you even think about crossing me again, Mom, Dad, and Todd won’t let you off so easy.” I didn’t know when I had ever crossed her. But five years in the dark had bred a bone-deep reflex in me. I didn’t dare think. I just nodded, a jerky, submissive motion. My parents stood near the doorway, exchanging a look of profound satisfaction. “She’s finally been tamed,” my father noted. “Those five years of character building didn’t go to waste.” Character building. That was their word for the iron collar. For kneeling in the freezing slush to scrub boots. For being dragged by my scalp into the icy depths. Character building. I didn’t argue. I just lowered my chin until it touched my chest. “I’ll be good. I’ll obey.” Todd and Declan shared a fleeting smile. It was the look of artisans admiring a wild thing they had successfully broken. Todd walked toward the bed and reached out to pat my head. My body seized. A violent, uncontrollable tremor ripped through me. His hand hovered in the air, freezing for a fraction of a second before he pulled it back. “You don’t need to be afraid. No one is going to hit you anymore,” Todd said, his tone adopting a velvet softness. “The Sanctuary is in the past. You are my fiancée now. You are Caroline Smith.” I shook my head, my eyes wide with terror. “No,” I whispered. “I’m the stray.” Todd froze. The softness evaporated, replaced by a tight, offended furrow in his brow. “Are you still blaming me for this?” My legs gave out. I threw myself off the mattress, hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, and pressed my forehead against the floorboards. “No, no! The stray wouldn’t dare. It’s my fault. I’m worthless.” The smug smiles on my parents’ faces cracked. Declan stepped forward, grabbing my arm to haul me up. “Alright, enough of this. You’re out now. You don’t need to use that word anymore.” He pulled me out of the bedroom and down the hall into the dining room, pressing me into a chair. “Eat something. You must be starving.” I lifted my eyes, just a fraction, to take in the table. It was groaning under the weight of roasted meats, fresh vegetables, and steaming bread. In the wards, we fought like wild dogs for moldy rations. If you were a second too slow, you gnawed on frozen roots. Sometimes, if you reached for a dropped crumb, the guards would stomp on your hand until the bones snapped. Reflexively, I yanked my hands back, burying them deep inside my sleeves. Todd picked up a piece of glazed meat with his fork and placed it on my plate. Like a gunshot, the gesture sent me sliding off the chair. I hit my knees on the rug. “The stray… Caroline doesn’t deserve meat. Please, leave it for Miss Evie.” A suffocating silence fell over the dining room. Declan let out an irritated sigh and walked over to pull me up. But the moment his bare skin brushed my hand, he went rigid. My hands looked like petrified wood. They were gnarled, covered in the purple-black webbing of healed frostbite, the knuckles thick and deformed. I saw the memory flash in his eyes. The year he caught the fever in the Sanctuary. I had knelt in front of the ward overseer, smashing my head against the concrete until my skull bled, just to trade for a single bowl of hot broth to keep him alive. Declan abruptly dropped my arm. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly sharp with defensive frustration. “I told you to eat, so eat. Drop the dramatic act.” Todd stepped in, his voice taking on that soothing, patronizing cadence again. “It’s all over, Cara. You aren’t that spoiled, arrogant girl anymore. We won’t send you back.” He picked up the piece of meat and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth. I took it in. I didn’t dare chew too loudly. I just swallowed it down. Todd nodded, pleased. My mother reached out, patting my shoulder, a small smile returning to her face. “Since Caroline has finally learned how to behave, I suppose we can start planning the wedding.” 2 Five years ago, I was the girl Todd loved. He used to hold my hand in the snow, pressing it into his coat pocket, promising he would keep me warm for the rest of our lives. But those memories felt like they belonged to a ghost. A girl from another lifetime. I gave a short, mechanical nod. Evie suddenly dropped her fork. It clattered against the fine china. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Todd, her body is still so weak from her… time away. Isn’t a wedding a bit too stressful right now? Can she handle it?” “I’m fine,” I blurted out. The panic was a living thing in my chest. I was so terrified they would think I was being difficult. I was terrified they would throw me back into the dark. Evie stared at me, the fake sweetness draining from her expression. “Well. That’s good, then.” When the meal ended, I immediately stood up and began clearing the plates. My mother blinked, startled, but she didn’t stop me. Five years ago, I was the princess of the Smith household. I didn’t know how to run a dishwasher. Now, I stood at the sink, scrubbing every single plate until my knuckles throbbed. I washed them three times over before putting them in the sterilizer. In the wards, if a plate had a smudge, you took a beating. When I finally turned around, wiping my wet, deformed hands on my jeans, I saw Todd standing in the kitchen doorway. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. Had I done something wrong? Was he angry? He frowned, his eyes scanning my hunched posture. “You… you don’t need to do chores here.” I dropped my gaze to his shoes, my voice small, fervent with devotion. “It’s my duty. I’ll take good care of you all. I promise.” I swallowed hard. “Just please… don’t send me back.” He stood there, perfectly still. Every muscle in my body pulled taut as a wire. I waited for his verdict. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice thick. “I’m never sending you back.” It was only when he turned and walked away that I remembered how to breathe. That night, Declan knocked on my bedroom door. He walked in holding a folded garment. “Your skin is sensitive. The fabric on this one is incredibly soft. You used to love this brand.” I reached out. The cashmere brushed my ruined fingertips, and for a second, my breath caught. It was so soft. Then, like it burned me, I shoved it back into his hands. “I don’t deserve something so nice. This is fine.” I pointed to the threadbare, patched jacket sitting in the corner of the room. Declan’s hand froze mid-air. “You didn’t used to be like this.” Used to be. I dug through my fragmented memories. The old Caroline. The girl who only wore silk, who demanded fresh linens every week, who drank from crystal. “I was ungrateful,” I recited, the words flat and rehearsed. “I was spoiled and I wasted so much. I know my place now. I’m content.” Declan’s jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the cashmere. He opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but the words died in his throat. He let out a ragged breath. “Just get some sleep.” He turned on his heel and pulled the door shut. But I didn’t go to sleep. I went to Todd’s room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed. When I walked in, he looked startled, but a flicker of genuine warmth—maybe even desire—lit up his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked softly. I quietly clicked the door shut behind me. “You are my master now. It’s my duty to serve you tonight.” Before he could process the words, I began unbuttoning my shirt. I climbed onto the mattress, lay flat on my back, spread my legs, and stared blankly at the ceiling. I felt nothing. Seconds ticked by. He didn’t move. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I turned my head to look at him. Panic clawed at my throat. Did I do the ritual wrong? In the labor wards, when the guards were silent like this, it meant the punishment was going to be severe. I shot up into a sitting position. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? Is my expression bad? I can fix it. Tell me how you like it.” I scrambled to appease him. But Todd looked horrified. His brows were drawn together, the warmth in his eyes completely extinguished, replaced by something dark, something I couldn’t decipher. His voice was a gravelly whisper. “In the Sanctuary… did you…” “I was stupid before!” I interrupted, my voice shrill with terror. “I was wrong. I’ll change, I swear I’ll be exactly what you want, just please don’t make me go back!” He squeezed his eyes shut. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he fought back whatever emotion was rising in him. Slowly, he reached out, grabbed the heavy duvet, and pulled it over my bare shoulders. The lamp clicked off. The room was swallowed by the dark. As I lay there, my eyes sliding shut, I heard him whisper into the silence. He was on the phone. “I need you to run a background check. Find out exactly what happened to her over the last five years.” 3 The next morning, a piercing scream shattered the quiet of the hallway. My eyes flew open. Muscle memory took over—I threw myself off the mattress and curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room. When Todd realized who was screaming, he bolted out the door. I threw my clothes on and scrambled after him. Evie was standing in the corridor, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “My necklace is gone! Mom gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I never even wore it!” My parents were instantly at her side, cooing and soothing her. Then, a young maid spoke up, her voice trembling. “Last night… I saw Miss Caroline sneaking out of her room…” Every single pair of eyes in the hallway snapped toward me. My mother’s brow furrowed. “Caroline. Where were you last night?” I shot a panicked look at Todd. I hadn’t served him properly. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say I was there. I ducked my head, my gnarled fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. Evie shot the maid a subtle, sharp look. Taking the cue, the maid lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “I bet she’s hiding it on her!” Instinctively, I curled inward, protecting my chest and face, but in the struggle, the back of my shirt was ripped downward. The hallway went dead silent. I felt the cool air on my back. I knew what they were staring at. A roadmap of intersecting, jagged horrors. Old scars layered over new ones. Burns, lacerations, the thick, raised keloids of repeated lashings. There wasn’t a single inch of unbroken skin left. Todd lunged forward, pulling my shirt up and wrapping his arms tightly around my shaking frame. “Stop it!” he roared at the maid. “She was in my room last night.” The air turned heavy, suffocating. A flash of pure, venomous jealousy crossed Evie’s face, but she masked it perfectly within a second. My mother slowly walked around to look at me, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “Your back… what happened to your back?” I kept my chin tucked, whispering to the floor. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Declan stepped closer, his voice dark and thick with an emotion I didn’t recognize. “Cara… you can’t blame us. Sending you to the Sanctuary… it was for your own good. To teach you. But you’re home now. We’ll make it up to you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” My mother hurriedly wiped at her wet cheeks. “I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe, honey. We’ll get you jewelry, makeup, whatever you want. Anything you want to eat, just tell me.” Even my father cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Let’s put the past behind us. You’ve matured a great deal.” At breakfast, my mother obsessively piled food onto my plate. Declan heated up a glass of milk and placed it gently in front of me. Todd sat close by my side, meticulously peeling shrimp and dropping the meat into my bowl. Across the table, Evie just sat there, aggressively stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork. She hadn’t taken a single bite. I kept my head down, eating exactly what I was given, chewing each bite with terrified precision. After breakfast, I headed toward the stairs to return to my room. Evie suddenly appeared, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the top of the staircase. She looked at me, her eyes stripped of all their usual sweetness. They were cold, dead. “Don’t think you’ve won,” she hissed. “I got rid of you five years ago, and I can do it again. Mom and Dad’s love belongs to me. Todd is mine. You will never beat me, Caroline.” Then, her foot suddenly slipped. She threw her weight backward. “Ahhhhh—!”

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Today marks exactly five years since Troy and I fell apart. Five years to the day. I had just stepped into the bakery to check on our inventory for the week. I never expected to run into him here. He was standing at the counter, picking up a custom order. The air in the room seemed to pull tight, vibrating with a heavy, sudden silence. He was the one who broke it. “Happy birthday, Maeve.” It caught me off guard. I offered a polite, hollow thank you and turned toward the kitchen. But just as my hand found the door handle, his voice pulled me back. “What happened back then… I was wrong.” I just smiled. I didn’t say a word in response. Those ghosts he was trying to summon? I buried them a long time ago. 1. Sophie, my shift manager, was in the middle of handing him the neatly tied pastry box when she noticed me. Her face lit up. “Oh, Maeve! You’re here. This is the regular I was telling you about, Mr. Sterling—wait, no, sorry,” she corrected herself with a laugh, “Mr. Thorne—no, wait, I’m terrible with names today. Mr. Vance—ugh, I mean, Mr. Caldwell! Troy Caldwell.” She beamed at him. “He was just telling me that he and his wife are absolutely obsessed with our cakes. He came all the way across town to pick up her birthday cake.” I gave a faint, professional nod of acknowledgment and made to walk past them. But Troy apparently didn’t care for my indifference. He closed the distance between us in two long strides and shoved the pristine white box directly into my hands. “Maeve, this birthday cake… It’s for you.” My brows pulled together. I stared at the box, utterly confused by his game. Before I could ask what the hell he was doing, his phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening, and answered it. He was already walking backward toward the door, holding up a finger to me. “Maeve, I need to talk to you. Just wait for me, okay? Please.” I stood there and watched his tailored wool coat disappear into the Boston wind. My heart didn’t flutter. My pulse didn’t race. There was only a vast, echoing stillness inside my chest. I turned around, walked over to the heavy-duty trash can by the door, and dropped the entire box inside. Looking down at the faint smudge of buttercream that had transferred to my thumb, the realization finally washed over me. It was my birthday. The fifth one since the collapse of us. Back then, a cake had been an impossible luxury. Now, it was just garbage. When I stepped back behind the counter, Sophie came bustling out of the walk-in fridge carrying another identical white box. She looked flustered. “I am so sorry, I grabbed the wrong one! I wanted to surprise you for your birthday.” She opened the box she was holding. My heart sank. This was the cake she had meant to give Troy. A stunning pistachio gateau, the top smoothed to perfection. And piped across it in elegant, dark chocolate lettering: Happy Birthday, Wifey. Sophie leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with the kind of innocent, ravenous gossip only a twenty-two-year-old possesses. “I hear his marriage is like, a modern-day fairy tale,” she whispered conspiratorially. “They grew up in the same country club, total blue-blood families. Old money marrying old money. He’s gorgeous, loaded, and totally devoted to her.” She rolled her eyes, leaning in closer. “I also read on one of those local gossip blogs that some trashy homewrecker tried to ruin their marriage a few years ago. Tried everything to get her hooks into his money, but he shut it down. People have no shame, right?” She paused, suddenly realizing the tension in my shoulders. She blinked at me, her curiosity peaking. “Wait, when he said hi to you… do you guys know each other? Oh my god, do you know who the homewrecker was? You have to tell me.” I met Sophie’s bright, expectant eyes. My expression didn’t shift. My voice was as calm as a frozen lake when I finally spoke. “It was me.” I was the shameless mistress who tried to ruin his perfect marriage. 2. The shock on Sophie’s face was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a small, horrified ‘o’. I just gave her a soft, reassuring smile and told her it was okay. But she couldn’t let it go. Her questions came rapid-fire, wrapped in apologies and wide-eyed disbelief. So, leaning against the flour-dusted prep table, I told her the story of Troy Caldwell. From the very beginning. When I first met Troy, he was nobody. His mother had just passed away from a prolonged illness, his father was drowning in the bottom of a bourbon bottle, and he was a broke kid buckling under tens of thousands of dollars in inherited debt. I was a girl who had clawed her way out of a hyper-traditional, deeply misogynistic household, working dead-end shifts in a city that didn’t care if I lived or died. We were two bruised kids colliding in the cheapest, darkest corner of the city. No money. No safety nets. A birthday cake? We couldn’t even afford to keep the heat on. But back then, Troy would walk two miles in the biting December sleet just to walk me home from my night shift. On the nights I worked overtime, he would make a cheap bowl of instant ramen, give me all the noodles, and drink the broth, smiling and swearing he wasn’t hungry. We were so poor that all we had to offer each other was love. I remember the way he used to hold me in our drafty studio apartment, his arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world. “Maeve, you’re it for me,” he’d whisper into my hair. “You’re my wife. The love of my life. I am going to make something of myself, I swear to God. And when I do, you’ll never have to struggle again. It’ll just be us. Forever.” We worked side by side. We paid off his family’s debts. We scraped together a modest savings, and the suffocating weight of poverty slowly began to lift. Eventually, we got married. Or so I thought. As his career skyrocketed, he was home less and less. The overtime turned into weekend trips, and the weekend trips turned into week-long business travels. But he handed over every single paycheck to me. He begged me to quit my grueling job. He wanted to take care of me. I remember crying, telling him I was terrified I wouldn’t be good enough for the man he was becoming. Troy had looked me dead in the eye, his hands cupping my face. “When I had absolutely nothing, you were the only one who stayed in the trenches with me. From that moment, I swore on my life I would never abandon you. I don’t care how successful I get, Maeve. I’m nothing without you.” That was his gift. The ability to look you in the eyes and make you believe every single word that left his mouth. No one could escape his orbit. Not the girl who met him in the cold. Not the woman who married him. And certainly not the woman who found out he was living a double life. “Cheating?” Sophie gasped, nearly knocking over a jar of sprinkles. “You guys were through hell and back! He cheated on you? With who? That wife he buys cakes for? Wait, so she was the mistress who stole him?” She crossed her arms, fiercely indignant. “That is so sick. They flipped the script and made the media think you were the other woman!” I let out a slow breath. “Actually, they didn’t have to lie about that part.” Because the marriage certificate Troy and I signed? It was a fake. A meticulously forged piece of paper. The woman named Brooke—the old-money heiress—she was his legal, lawful wife. When I was twenty-five, I found out I was pregnant. We were over the moon. I quit my job, just like he wanted, to stay home and prepare for the baby. He threw himself into his work, claiming he needed to build an empire for our child. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a month. Whenever he came home, utterly exhausted, he would hand me his paycheck, and my heart would break for him. I would rub his shoulders, and he would place his hand over my small, swelling belly. “I have a family now, Maeve,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with exhaustion and devotion. “I have to work harder. I want you to have the world. I want to build a fortress to keep you both safe.” He used to tell me he loved how soft I was. How unquestioning. How completely I trusted him to handle the outside world. In my tiny, isolated bubble of an apartment, he was God. He controlled the narrative, the finances, the reality. I didn’t understand what he meant by “keeping me safe from the world” back then. I understood it the very next day. I had found a beautiful, gently used bassinet online. I wanted to save money, so I took the train out to one of the wealthiest suburbs—Beacon Hill—to pick it up. When the door opened, I saw a glowing, perfectly manicured woman who had clearly never worked a hard day in her life. And over her shoulder, hanging on the wall of her grand foyer, was a massive, professionally lit family portrait. Staring back at me from the canvas was my husband. That was the day I witnessed the beautiful, untouchable reality of Troy’s actual family. And realized that I was nothing more than a dirty little secret. 3. That afternoon, the earth fell out from under me. I realized my husband—the man supposedly killing himself on business trips—was just spending time at his actual home. I realized the three thousand dollars a month he solemnly handed me was pocket change for a man who had recently inherited his grandfather’s massive real estate trust fund. I realized I was just a pet. A nostalgic plaything he kept tucked away in a cheap apartment to make himself feel grounded. I confronted him. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. But I didn’t get a tearful apology. I didn’t get an explanation. I got a cold, legally binding Non-Disclosure Agreement slid across the kitchen island. “Don’t take this to Brooke,” he said, his voice entirely stripped of the warmth I had known for years. “You and she are not the same.” My eyes stung with unshed tears. “What kind of person am I, then, Troy?” He let out a short, cynical laugh. It sounded like ice cracking. “Maeve, knowing the details won’t do you any good. Brooke and I have been matched since we were kids. Our families share boards, portfolios, legacies. You cannot compete with her on a single metric.” He reached out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen. We can go right back to how things were. You have a good life here. Don’t ruin it.” I stared at the man standing in my kitchen. He looked like my husband, but there was a stranger behind his eyes. How could the boy who once held me like I was his whole world look at me with such calculated, corporate indifference? How did I go from a beloved wife to a disposable whore overnight? I refused the NDA. I refused to compromise. I completely lost my mind. I screamed, grabbing anything within reach and hurling it at the walls. Plates, glasses, the toaster—and finally, I took a hammer to the expensive bassinet I’d dragged home. I collapsed amid the shattered glass and splintered wood, my hair stuck to my wet, flushed face, gasping for air. Troy didn’t even flinch. He just looked at the wreckage of the bassinet, adjusted his cuffs, and said, “That piece cost me ten thousand dollars.” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. I understood. Ten thousand dollars was a number I couldn’t comprehend. I shouldn’t have offended him. I shouldn’t have made him angry. But the grief, the betrayal, and the pregnancy hormones became a lethal cocktail. If he wanted quiet, I would give him a hurricane. If he wanted to protect Brooke from the truth, I would make sure the whole world knew. I posted everything online. Photos, texts, the fake marriage license. But I had underestimated the power of true wealth. With one phone call, his PR machine crushed me. The narrative spun so violently I got whiplash. My personal information was leaked. I was painted as an unhinged, predatory stalker trying to extort a beloved local philanthropist. Troy released a polished, sympathetic public statement. “This young woman has been struggling with severe delusions and has harassed my family for years. We ask the public for privacy and urge people not to direct hate toward my wife.” He publicly affirmed that Brooke was the only woman he had ever loved. He knew exactly what the internet mob would do to me. He knew I would receive death threats, that I wouldn’t be able to leave my apartment safely. He didn’t care. He just needed to appease Brooke’s family. My parents—who had only ever seen me as a piggy bank for my younger brother anyway—called to formally disown me. I became a national joke. A cautionary tale. Meanwhile, Troy played the stoic, protective husband for the cameras. He came to my apartment one last time, his tone dripping with the exhausted patience of a man negotiating with a hostage. “Do you understand now, Maeve?” he asked, stepping over a broken plate. “Your apartment, your groceries, your so-called dignity… it all comes from my bank account. Without me, you are a ghost. Like I said, just be a good girl, and we can go back to normal. Is that so hard?” Yes. It was. I couldn’t share my bed with a man who had another wife, another life, another reality. If I couldn’t fight him, I would run. Seven months pregnant, I packed a duffel bag and tried to vanish. I tried Greyhound buses. Amtrak. Cheap red-eye flights. Every single time, his private security intercepted me before I could leave the city limits. He had me brought back to a high-security penthouse downtown. He sat next to me on a velvet sofa, reached out, and pressed his cold palm against my swollen stomach. “Why won’t you just behave, Maeve?” he whispered, his eyes devoid of light. “I can give you a life most people only dream of. Why are you throwing it away?” I didn’t want penthouses or allowances. I just wanted the boy who shared a bowl of cheap noodles with me on a Tuesday night. But that boy was dead. And Troy didn’t care what I wanted. He locked the door and kept me prisoner. I told Sophie all of this in a flat, even tone. By the time I paused, tears were streaming down her face, ruining her eyeliner. She choked back a sob. “What… what happened next?” What happened next was that Brooke found out where he was keeping me. She bypassed security. She came into the penthouse. And in the chaotic, screaming blur of a physical fight, I went into premature labor. 4. The baby didn’t take a single breath. He was gone before he even entered the world. For the first time since the facade shattered, Troy looked at me with something resembling guilt. He stood at the foot of my hospital bed, staring at my paper-white face, and lowered his voice. “Maeve… Brooke crossed a line this time,” he murmured. “But you have to understand, she’s been incredibly sheltered. She’s never dealt with anything like this. It triggered a panic attack. I’ll apologize on her behalf. And I will compensate you.” His version of compensation was a check for ten thousand dollars left on my bedside table. It was less than the cost of the Cartier bracelet currently dangling from Brooke’s wrist. I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I didn’t need his security guards to lock me up anymore. I went back to a small, dark apartment and curled into a ball, hollowed out, a body completely emptied of its soul. Troy didn’t bother checking on me. He was too busy doing damage control for his real wife. Brooke had been “traumatized” by the sight of my blood on her shoes. He canceled his meetings, flew her to a resort in St. Barts, and showered her in diamonds to calm her nerves. It was as if the violent confrontation—and the tiny, lifeless body of my son—had never existed. The man who used to press his ear to my stomach and sing to my baby forgot him the moment the heart monitor flatlined. The man who promised me a safe harbor was the one who drowned me. But that wasn’t even the end of it. Somehow, rumors leaked about Brooke’s involvement in my miscarriage. The society blogs started turning on her. And just like always, Troy couldn’t stand to see a single scratch on his wife’s reputation. So, naturally, I was served up on a silver platter. Using the ashes of my son as leverage, he forced me to go on a live stream and issue a groveling, public apology. His PR team wrote the script. I had to look into the camera and confess that I used my pregnancy to extort the Caldwell family. That I had stormed their property in a manic rage, and Brooke had merely pushed me in self-defense. That I killed my own child out of greed. They even painted Brooke as a saint. The press release noted her “deep Christian charity” in offering to pay my medical bills out of pity. Troy held a press conference shortly after. Standing at a podium, looking devastatingly handsome, he outlined my supposed manipulations. He dramatically pledged his undying loyalty to Brooke, announcing to the world that to prove his devotion, he had undergone a vasectomy. Standing there in the wings of that press conference, listening to a room full of journalists applaud him while the internet tore me to shreds, calling me a murderer… something inside my brain simply snapped. The pressure was too much. The walls closed in. I bolted out the side doors, ran into the freezing November night, and threw myself off the Longfellow Bridge into the icy, black waters of the Charles River. For the very first time, a crack of genuine, unfiltered panic broke across Troy’s face. He sprinted after me, his dress shoes slipping on the wet pavement, catching my wrist right as I vaulted over the railing. “Maeve, don’t do this!” he screamed. He promised he would cut ties with me. He promised he and Brooke would never, ever come near me again. But I didn’t want his promises. I just wanted it all to stop. I wrenched my arm out of his grip and let gravity take me. It was a miracle I survived. A passing rowing team pulled me out. But the physical trauma, the hypothermia, and the damage from the premature birth ravaged my body. I was told I would never be able to conceive again. I paused the story there and offered Sophie a small, genuine smile. “Actually, not being able to have kids is a blessing in disguise. It guarantees I’ll never replace him. I’ll never forget the one I lost.” “Everyone else got to move on and forget him. But I get to keep him.” “That first year in this city… I woke up screaming almost every night. I was plagued by dreams of a baby who never opened his eyes, and of Troy’s face. My mental health was so shattered I couldn’t hold down a normal job. So, I started baking. It required precision. It forced me to stay present.” “When I couldn’t sleep at 3 a.m., I baked cakes. And slowly, the panic attacks stopped. My hands stopped shaking. Now, I have this shop. I have a quiet life.” My voice was steady, but Sophie was completely falling apart. She was sobbing, wiping her face with a kitchen towel. “Maeve, that’s… that’s a nightmare. Oh my god, he is a monster. If I ever see him again, I swear I’ll take a rolling pin to his head.” Right on cue, the little brass bell above the bakery door chimed. The door pushed open. Troy stood on the threshold. He was holding a sleek, expensive-looking gift bag. He stared at me, his eyes dark, desperate, and terrifyingly certain. 5. “Maeve. I filed for divorce.” Sophie sucked in a sharp breath, her head whipping toward me. I didn’t miss a beat. I gave him a curt, polite nod. “Then I wish you the best of luck in your next chapter.” Troy physically flinched. He was so used to women hanging on his every word, so accustomed to my total, pathetic devotion, that my deadpan reaction scrambled his brain. “Maeve, I did it for you.” He took a heavy step toward the counter. “What happened back then… I know I destroyed you. I’ve been looking for you for five years. I want to make it right. I want to compensate you.” I finally lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eyes. Five years had passed, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Still the same devastatingly earnest eyes. Still speaking in grand, sweeping declarations designed to make a woman feel like the center of the universe. But I was no longer the girl who felt like a queen just because he shared his ramen broth with me. “Mr. Caldwell, I don’t need your compensation.” “And like I said earlier, I’ve forgotten the past.” He clearly didn’t believe me. His jaw worked, and he opened his mouth to argue, but I had already turned my back, heading for the swinging doors of the kitchen. Sophie, bless her heart, immediately stepped in front of the counter, blocking his view of me. “Sir, my boss has a business to run. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Troy stood frozen in the middle of the bakery. He stared at the swinging door, his voice dropping to a raw, ragged whisper. “Maeve… our son. I haven’t forgotten him.” My foot stopped inches from the kitchen tile. I forced myself to take the next step. I pushed through the doors. Just as the heavy wood swung shut behind me, I heard him call out into the quiet shop. “I dream about him. For five years. Every single month, I see him in my sleep.” I leaned my back heavily against the door, closing my eyes. My fingers dug into the thick canvas of my apron straps, knuckles turning white. He dreams about him once a month and thinks he knows what pain is? I dream about him every time I close my eyes. And my son never even got to look at the sky. … Troy didn’t let my coldness deter him. From that day on, he became a fixture at the bakery. Sometimes he bought a croissant. Sometimes just a black coffee. He would sit at the small table in the corner, nursing his drink, just quietly watching me work. At first, Sophie treated him like an active bomb threat. But when he didn’t make a scene, she slowly let her guard down, though she kept a steady stream of commentary going in my ear. “Maeve, what is his endgame? It’s been five years. Where was this energy when you were actually dying?” I never answered. I just kept my eyes on the turntable, carefully piping buttercream roses. The frosting formed delicate, precise ridges under my fingertips. Just like the life I had rebuilt for myself. Beautiful. Fragile. But whole. On the seventh day, Troy walked in holding a thick, leather-bound photo album. He walked straight to the counter and slid it across the glass display case. “Maeve. Just look.” I didn’t move. He opened the heavy cover. The very first page held a faded, glossy sonogram. My breath hitched. I recognized it instantly. It was the baby. My baby. Troy’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about him all these years. I kept everything. Every ultrasound printout. The empty bottle of prenatal vitamins you used to keep by the sink. And…” He swallowed hard. “Those little shoes you bought.” A violent tremor shot through my fingers. The shoes. I had bought them at a thrift store the week I found out I was pregnant. They were pale blue, with a tiny, ridiculous rabbit embroidered on the toes. I remembered Troy laughing at them, asking me what we would do if the baby was a girl. We’ll save them for the next one, I had said. There was never a next one.

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I was spiraling. My own family had gone as far as bringing in a “spiritual consultant,” convinced that I needed to be purged, perhaps even burned alive. It was a nightmare that made no sense. If they saw me use my left hand, they would erupt into a frenzy of screams and hysterics. Yet, in the next breath, they would cradle that same hand, weeping, asking if it hurt, smothering it with a terrifying kind of devotion. Even when I took a heavy iron wrench and systematically smashed my husband’s brand-new luxury SUV into a heap of twisted metal, he and my mother didn’t blink. They didn’t care about the car. They only cared about me. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I was my daughter’s biological mother. But after the way they looked at me, I ended up at a clinic, demanding a full DNA panel. I thought I was the one who had finally snapped. When I walked into the kitchen later that day, my mother didn’t greet me with a smile. She picked up a pot of boiling water and flung it toward me, her face contorted in rage. “My daughter is dead! You’re just a skin-suit! Don’t you dare try to play me!” But then, she saw it. She saw me reach out with my left hand to steady myself, my fingers grazing the biometric lock on the pantry. Her rage vanished, replaced by a haunting, hollow sob. she turned and ran, fleeing back to her own house to “report” me to my father. I was paralyzed by a cocktail of terror and confusion. “Give me my wife back, or I’ll gut you myself!” my husband, Trevor, had hissed at me earlier that morning. His face had gone deathly pale, his eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of freak are you?” But the moment he watched me use my left hand to swipe my keycard at the community gate, his aggression evaporated into a chilling, wide-eyed silence. It felt like a glitch in the universe. I tried to bring it up to Trevor when he got home from work, hoping for a rational explanation. Instead, it triggered a domestic war. From that day on, every time I used my left hand, my own daughter would shriek at the top of her lungs, calling me a “kidnapper” and an “imposter.” She wouldn’t let me touch her. She acted as if my skin were made of acid. I told myself she was just being a temperamental toddler. But then came the weekend trip to the city. We were at the subway station, moving through the turnstiles. Out of habit, I reached out with my left hand to tap my transit card. My daughter, whose hand I was holding, suddenly yanked herself away. She looked at me with a face full of pure, unadulterated horror and screamed for the whole station to hear: “You’re not my mommy!” The commuters stopped. They began to whisper and point. I stood there, frozen, the mechanical hum of the station feeling like a death knell. … After fleeing the suffocating atmosphere of my home, I practically sprinted to the office. I needed the grind. I needed the spreadsheets and the deadlines to prove to myself that the world was still round, and that I wasn’t the one who had lost my mind. They were the crazy ones. My daughter, my husband, my mother—all of them. I poured every ounce of my soul into my work. Using my “good” right hand, I hammered away at the keyboard, crafting a PowerPoint deck that was nothing short of a masterpiece. It was a high-stakes project proposal, and under my direction, it became a surgical strike of logic and strategy. During the board meeting, I operated the laser pointer with my right hand, articulating my vision with a clarity that felt like a lifeline. When I finished, my boss was the first to clap. His eyes were gleaming with genuine respect. “Jade, this is incredible. The project is yours. Perfect execution.” My colleagues swarmed me with congratulations. “You’re a legend, Jade!” “This plan is air-tight. No one does it like you.” For a few beautiful moments, the validation washed over me, loosening the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in my chest for days. I took a deep, shaky breath. I felt human again. And then, a pen rolled off the mahogany table and clattered onto the floor. Without thinking—purely by instinct—I leaned down and picked it up with my left hand. The air in the conference room didn’t just turn cold; it vanished. I looked up, and every single person was staring at my left hand. Their expressions weren’t just surprised—they were curdled with fear, disgust, and a primal sort of rejection. “Agggh!” It was Valerie, my closest friend at the firm. She was backing away, her face a mask of ghostly pale terror, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “You… you…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She turned and bolted like she had seen a demon rising from the floorboards. She tripped, losing a high heel in the process, but she didn’t stop. She literally scrambled out of the room on all fours. I stood there, paralyzed. The pen slipped from my fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud. What was happening? Why? Why was the rot spreading to my professional life? By that afternoon, Valerie had submitted her resignation via email, citing “severe psychological trauma” and a need for immediate medical leave. The fear in me finally curdled into a scorching, white-hot rage. This was a conspiracy. It had to be. It was Trevor. It had to be him. He must have coordinated with the entire company to gaslight me, to break me until I admitted I was insane. I marched toward my department head’s office. I wasn’t going to take this anymore. I slammed the door open with my left hand. “Mr. Henderson, I need an explanation, and I need it now!” Henderson was hunched over some files. He jumped, startled. But the second his eyes landed on my left hand—the one still gripping the door handle—he surged out of his chair. He stumbled backward so hard he slammed into his filing cabinet. “Don’t… don’t come any closer!” He was shaking violently. His hand fumbled in his desk drawer until he pulled something out and aimed it at my face. It was pepper spray. “Get out!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “If you don’t leave this building right now, I’m calling the police!” A wave of profound, crushing loneliness swallowed me whole. I wasn’t just being harassed. I was being erased by the world. I decided to test the boundaries of this absurdity. I needed to see how far they would go. I went home. Trevor and my mother-in-law were sitting on the sofa, watching TV, a picture-perfect scene of domestic bliss. I didn’t say a word. I walked straight to the hall closet, pulled out Trevor’s brand-new graphite golf driver, and walked out to the driveway. His million-dollar pride and joy—the limited edition Porsche—was gleaming in the sun. I gripped the club, put every bit of my trauma and fury into my shoulders, and swung. I smashed the hood with everything I had. CRUNCH. The metal crumpled. I expected a blowout. I expected him to scream, to maybe even hit me. Instead, they both came sprinting out, but they weren’t looking at the car. They lunged for the golf club, wrenching it out of my hands. Trevor grabbed my right hand, his eyes brimming with tears of genuine heartbreak and panic. “Honey, is your hand okay? Did you hurt yourself?” He began meticulously checking my fingers for even the slightest scratch. “You’ve been pampered your whole life,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How could you do such back-breaking work? You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.” My mother-in-law hovered behind him, clutching her chest. “Exactly! The car is just metal, we can buy ten more. But your hands… they’re precious. We can’t let anything happen to them.” It was the most grotesque, nonsensical display of affection I had ever witnessed. That night at dinner, my biological mother joined us. She had cooked a massive spread of all my favorite childhood dishes. The atmosphere was sickeningly sweet. I decided to push the button one more time. As the “warmth” reached its peak, I intentionally reached out with my left hand to grab a pair of serving tongs in the center of the table. The laughter died instantly. It was like someone had cut the power to the house. Trevor’s face went from flushed to a sickly, translucent white. SMASH. The bowl of soup in my mother’s hands hit the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. My daughter let out a piercing, jagged scream. She scrambled off her chair and hid behind the sofa, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You’re not my mommy! You’re a monster! A demon!” Trevor lunged. He grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table, his face distorted by a murderous, primal rage, and hurled it directly at my left hand. “I’ll kill you, you freak!” I dived out of the way, the crystal whistling past my ear and shattering against the wall. A shard grazed my knuckle, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Before I could even catch my breath, my mother tackled me. She pinned my shoulders to the floor with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. She held a bowl of dark, foul-smelling liquid in one hand and used the other to pinch my jaw open with bruising force. “Drink it! Drink it now! We have to drive this thing out of you!” I thrashed and gagged as the bitter, revolting “tonic” was forced down my throat. I ended up retching it all over the rug. They locked me in the master bedroom. For two days and two nights, the door remained bolted from the outside. Food and water were pushed through a small gap at the bottom of the door, like I was a high-security inmate. The first day, I screamed. I clawed at the door. I begged. The only response was a tomb-like silence from the hallway. By the second day, the exhaustion set in. And with it, a cold, hard clarity. If I wanted to survive, I had to play the part. I tore through the vanity drawers until I found a roll of heavy medical gauze. I began to wrap my left hand—from the fingertips all the way to the elbow—tighter and tighter, until it was a mummified club. Then, using my teeth and my right hand, I fashioned a sling out of a silk scarf and hung it around my neck. I stood in front of the mirror for hours. I practiced. I practiced how to move, how to balance, and how to do everything clumsily with only my right hand. When I was ready, I knocked on the door with my right fist. Softly. Vulnerably. There was a long silence. Then, the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door swung open. Trevor stood there, his eyes cold and predatory. But when his gaze dropped to the sling—to the heavily bandaged, “useless” limb hanging at my side—the killing intent vanished. It was replaced by a complex swirl of emotions: relief, pity, and a terrifying flash of triumph. “Honey…” His voice broke. He stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing embrace. “You’re finally… you’re finally back to normal.” The domestic “warmth” returned like a light switch being flipped. My mother acted as if nothing had happened, piling my plate with food, her smile brighter than a neon sign. My daughter crept out of her room, shyly approaching me with a spoon to blow on my soup. “It’s not hot anymore, Mommy. Eat up.” Everything was exactly as it had been. Or rather, a hyper-saturated, terrifying version of it. After dinner, Trevor pulled out his phone, his face glowing with excitement. “We need a photo. To celebrate our family’s rebirth!” They crowded around me, and I forced a smile for the lens. But as Trevor was about to hit the shutter, my daughter slipped. She tripped on the rug, screaming as she began to fall toward the sharp, jagged edge of the marble coffee table. My brain didn’t have time to process the “rules.” Reflex took over. I whipped my left hand out of the sling, the bandages trailing like streamers, and caught her by the collar with a vice-grip, yanking her back just inches from the stone. She was safe. Not a scratch on her. I looked up, expecting a sigh of relief. Instead, I met two pairs of eyes—Trevor’s and my mother’s—that looked like the eyes of the dead. They were staring at my left hand, still suspended in the air, gripping my daughter’s shirt. The illusion of the happy family shattered into a million pieces. SLAP. The blow was so hard it sent me spinning. I hit the floor, my ears ringing with a deafening roar. Trevor was towering over me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated evil. “Monster! You just couldn’t keep it up, could you?” His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a violent disappointment, as if I had committed the ultimate sin. “Why did you move it? Why did you have to use it?!” He roared, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me across the floor toward the door. My mother didn’t stop him. She ran to the front door, threw it open, and began wailing for the neighbors to hear. “Look! Look at the thing that stole my daughter’s body!” “She’s not my girl! My daughter is dead! This is a demon!” Neighbors peeked out, whispering and pointing, but no one moved to help. Their eyes were identical to my coworkers’—filled with a superstitious, cult-like dread. Trevor dragged me back into the living room. It had been transformed. In the center of the room stood a makeshift altar. A man in dark, ornate robes—the “consultant”—was waiting, a heavy wooden staff in his hand. “I told you the spirit was cunning,” the man said, stroking a thin beard with a smug, self-important air. My mother and Trevor pinned me to the floor, their knees digging into my back as the “exorcist” began his ritual. He circled me, chanting in a low, rhythmic drone, before pointing his staff at my left hand—the hand that had just saved my child’s life. “The source of the rot is here!” he bellowed. “Burn it! Only fire can end this!” What happened next broke my understanding of humanity. They lashed me to a heavy wooden chair, binding my torso and legs until I couldn’t move an inch. My mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a plastic jug. The smell hit me instantly. Gasoline. Trevor stood in front of me, flicking a silver lighter. Click. Click. Click. He had a twisted, serene smile on his face. “Honey, I gave you a chance.” “Since you won’t go back to being my obedient wife, you can go to hell along with that monster’s body.” As I screamed until my throat bled, my mother tipped the jug. The cold, stinking liquid drenched my head and shoulders. Trevor thumbed the lighter. Click. A small, orange flame bloomed in his hand, reflected in my wide, terrified eyes.

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The crumpled scratch-off ticket lay in the trash can, the $100,000 prize printed on it burning my eyes. Just minutes ago, I thought it was a miracle. A wedding fund sent straight from heaven. I had rushed at my boyfriend, Timothy, waving the ticket like a lifeline. “Timothy! We can finally do it! We can get married!” My voice had trembled. The finish line of our five-year relationship was right in front of us. He wouldn’t have to stress about the ring, the down payment for a house, the crushing weight of starting our life together. But there wasn’t a single ounce of joy on his face. Instead, he let out a soft, mocking scoff. “Are you really that desperate to be a wife?” Before the ice of those words could even sink into my veins, a burst of harsh, echoing laughter erupted from the phone in his pocket. “Man, you lost the bet! She actually thinks she can use that chump change to marry you. Might as well just put a ring on it!” a guy’s voice snickered. “For real. A hundred grand? That wouldn’t even cover one of Una’s Birkins. This girl is so cheap.” Una. The trust-fund girl who used to corner me in the high school bathrooms. The one who made my teenage years a living hell. It turned out that in his eyes, I wasn’t even worth the leather on one of her handbags. Five years. Five years of love, of building a life, of sharing a bed. All of it was just a sick, twisted bet between him and his rich friends. 1. “Alright, knock it off, all of you.” Timothy’s voice was casual. “I’m not one to go back on my word. You all better get your wedding gifts ready.” Amidst the chorus of hoots and whistles from the speaker, a woman’s voice cut through—a voice that still haunted my worst nightmares. “Timothy, are you out of your damn mind?!” Una shrieked. “We agreed you were just going to mess with her! It was supposed to be a joke to help me blow off some steam. You’re actually going to marry her?” Timothy reached out, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb, answering the phone with a lazy drawl. “Yeah. If I don’t marry her, what, am I supposed to marry you?” “Una, sweetheart, did you really think I was your little lapdog? That I’d just roll over and do whatever you say?” The line went dead. The abrupt beep of the disconnected call echoed in the small kitchen. Timothy stared at his phone for a long moment before looking up at me with an easy smile. “What were you crying for just now? So happy you’re marrying a rich guy that it broke your brain?” Before I could force a syllable past the lump in my throat, he turned toward the stove. “You want fried rice? I’ll make it right now.” He tied his faded apron around his waist, cracking an egg, chopping scallions with practiced ease. He moved exactly as he had for the last five years. As if the soul-crushing humiliation that just unfolded in our kitchen had never happened. I took a shallow breath. My chest ached with a rhythmic, pulsing pain. I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “Aren’t you tired?” “What?” he asked over his shoulder. “Five years. Aren’t you tired of acting?” Timothy didn’t answer. The only sound left in the room was the heavy hum of the exhaust fan over the stove. It grated against my nerves, deafening and chaotic. I walked over, snapped the fan off, and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “Are you not going to explain?” “I just came clean, didn’t I? What else is there to explain?” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “Una and I grew up together. We’re childhood friends. Don’t read into it.” He neatly sidestepped the bet. He conveniently ignored Una’s comment about ‘blowing off steam.’ I tilted my head back, blinking hard against the raw burn in my eyes. Five years. Over eighteen hundred days and nights. I had hollowed out my chest and handed my heart to Timothy. I truly believed he was the man I would walk through the fire with. I didn’t care that we were broke. We could work for it. I didn’t care that we rented a tiny apartment or took the subway. We could save. And now he was telling me that every struggle, every tear, every quiet moment of comfort, was a meticulously crafted lie? A prank designed just to stroke Una’s ego? I couldn’t fathom it. I was a nobody. An ordinary girl trying to survive. What on earth did I possess that made me worth this kind of elaborate psychological torture? Why would a wealthy heir spend five years playing the role of a devoted, struggling boyfriend? When he used to hold me and apologize for not being able to give me a better life—did he have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing? When he warmed my freezing feet against his chest in the winter, when he scrubbed out stains in my underwear in the sink—was he suppressing a gag? What an incredible actor. Truly, I had inconvenienced him. “So, what day are we getting married?” he asked, his tone as light as if he were asking if I wanted soy sauce on my rice. I clenched my jaw, my voice dripping with pure venom. “We’re not.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? Because of a joke? Haven’t you been dying to marry me for years?” “Yeah, I lied. But look at the outcome. It’s a win for you, isn’t it? I can give you a million dollars for the wedding. A house. A luxury car. Just point at what you want. What the hell are you so hung up on?” “This isn’t about money—” Timothy froze, then suddenly hurled the ceramic bowl against the wall. It shattered on impact. Shards of porcelain grazed my bare arms, and raw egg splattered across the linoleum. “When we were broke, you wanted money. Now that we have money, you want to talk about something else!” he yelled. “Nicole, are you sick in the head?” A thin trail of blood snaked down my forearm. My hands were completely numb. He instinctively reached out to grab me. I shoved him away. “Yeah. I am sick in the head.” My voice was a ghost of a whisper. I reached down and shoved the sleeves of my sweater all the way up, exposing the jagged, overlapping pale scars that mapped my forearms. “I am clinically depressed. I am deeply mentally ill. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?” The tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, staring dead into his eyes. “Timothy, I’m asking you. Are you satisfied?!” “Why the hell would I marry you?! Why would I marry the man who turned my life into a sick game for my abuser?!” His lips parted, trembling slightly. Something flashed in his eyes. For a pathetic, split second, I actually thought it was remorse. Then his phone rang again. He answered it. “Timothy! Una is wasted! She’s screaming and breaking things. She says she needs to see you!” a panicked voice shouted through the receiver. “How is that my problem?” Timothy muttered, pulling the first-aid kit from the cabinet, stepping toward me with the iodine. “She said… she said if you don’t come right now, she’s going to find some random guy at the club and sleep with him.” The iodine bottle slipped from Timothy’s hand, spilling a dark brown puddle onto the floor. He clenched his fists, shooting me a conflicted, agonizing look, before his jaw set into a hard line. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say a word. I just stood by the window in dead silence. I watched him sprint down the sidewalk. When he reached the apartment exit, my beat-up electric scooter was blocking his path. He kicked it violently, sending it crashing to the pavement. He had bought me that scooter during our second year together. It didn’t keep the rain or the cold out, but it meant I didn’t have to squeeze into the crowded subway anymore. When he surprised me with it, I had cried with joy, riding him around our tiny apartment complex in circles. What I thought was love. What I thought was happiness. It was just like that scooter now. Lying in the gutter, its mirrors shattered into a thousand useless pieces. 2. Blood dripped steadily from my arm. I wrapped the gauze around the cuts with robotic, numb movements. The bright red mixing with my tears was a nauseating sight. I stared at the white bandages. My mind fractured, ping-ponging violently between the echoes of Una’s voice—“just mess with her”—and the memories of Timothy holding me. In those dark days, when I would wake up screaming from nightmares, my hands desperately searching for something sharp to make the emotional pain physical, Timothy had gripped my wrists. “Nicole! If you die, it’s over for you. But what about me?!” he had wept into my hair. “What are the people who love you supposed to do?!” He had held me so tightly. He sounded so profoundly terrified of losing me. His burning tears had soaked right through my shirt, warming me all the way down to my frozen bones. And so, I had cracked my chest open for him. Between ragged sobs, I told him everything. I told him about the explicit, fabricated rumors Una spread about me. How she framed me for stealing. How she and her friends cornered me in the locker room, dumping buckets of ice water over my head until I was shaking so violently I couldn’t breathe. The stress and physical trauma had triggered severe endometriosis. The pain was so agonizing I had to drop out of high school for a year. I spent six months in and out of the hospital. For years, just hearing the name “Una” was enough to send me into a panic attack. But I gritted my teeth and survived. And Timothy had been there, staying awake until dawn, stroking my hair, whispering, “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” Was he ever comforting me? Or was he just collecting data? Gathering stories to share with Una so they could laugh at her masterpiece? I felt physically sick. Across the room, the laptop screen glowed. The little Discord icon was flashing frantically. Timothy had left in such a rush, he forgot to log out. With shaking fingers, I clicked it open. It was a private server. Una was the admin. I scrolled to the very top. I read every single message. Every word. I read how Timothy’s relentless pursuit of me in college wasn’t love at first sight. It was a directive. Una: She got into the same university as you? What a joke. God, I hate her so much. Timothy, can you just pretend to date her? Ruin her and then toss her out. Timothy: You refuse to be my girlfriend, but you’re pushing me onto someone else? You’re brutal, Val. I read how every time I let my guard down, the server would explode with cheers. They took bets on when he would finally sleep with me. I watched the video of him gifting me the electric scooter. I read their comments. God, she’s so pathetic. Crying over a piece of trash like it’s a Mercedes. I saw them mocking the watch I bought him—the one I ate instant noodles for six months to afford. They called it cheap, embarrassing garbage. Line after line of venomous, merciless cruelty carved into my brain. Tears hit the keyboard, pooling between the keys. I scrubbed my face raw with my sleeve and kept reading. Later in the chat, Timothy spoke less. Until recently, when they began demanding the grand finale. The ultimate humiliation to break me permanently. I slumped back in the computer chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the room felt thick, unbreathable. I could hear my own ragged breathing, mingling with the audio from the live video call playing in the group chat. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Timothy, man, Una is practically throwing herself at you! Don’t leave her hanging!” I stared blankly at the screen. Through the grainy footage of the club’s VIP room, I watched Timothy scoop up a heavily intoxicated Una into his arms. He kicked open the door to a private back room. The cheers and whistles from his friends were deafening, like they were sending a newlywed couple off to their honeymoon suite. Slowly, deliberately, I placed my hands on the keyboard. You disgusting animals. Why don’t you all just rot in hell? I hit send. A second later, the server disconnected. I had been kicked out. My stomach violently rebelled. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up everything in my system, dry-heaving over the toilet until my throat bled. The rain from my youth had never actually stopped. Timothy just held an umbrella over my head for a little while, tricking me into believing the sky had cleared. My phone buzzed on the bathroom tile. I swiped to answer. “You saw it?” Timothy’s voice was breathless. “Yes.” “Wait for me. I’m coming home. Let me explain, I—” “Don’t bother.” I sat exhausted on the cold tile, looking out into the living room we had decorated together. “You don’t need to explain, and you don’t need to come back.” “Timothy. I don’t want to play your game anymore. Just let me go.” “I know I can’t beat you people. But I can hide.” 3. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was agonizing. I finally held the power button and shut it off entirely. I shoved the property deed back into the drawer where I had found it while packing my suitcase. I had always praised Timothy for finding such a cheap, perfect apartment so close to my office. I never would have guessed that he was the owner. The moon hung high and cold, casting a pale light over me as I walked out of the building. The sound of my suitcase wheels rolling against the concrete felt deafening in the dead of night. But it was drowned out by the screech of tires skidding to a halt right in front of me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Timothy was out of the car in a flash, chest heaving, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “You’re a grown woman pulling a runaway act? Are you five years old? Get in the car. We’re going home.” I turned my head, refusing to look at the fresh, bruising hickey blooming on his neck. I yanked my arm with all my strength, but he wouldn’t let go. “You and I don’t have a home.” He stared at me, his eyes dark. I tried to walk around him, and he hauled me back by the shoulders. “Be rational for one second, okay?” he snapped. “Whatever issues you have with Una are ancient history. How long are you going to hold onto high school drama?” “People need to move forward. You know exactly how good I’ve been to you these past five years. If you leave me, where are you ever going to find someone who treats you like I do?” Ancient history. Of course it was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one waking up screaming. He took the trauma that shattered my mind and permanently altered my body, and brushed it off as “drama.” I stared at him, truly looking at his face. This was the face that used to make my heart skip a beat. How did he look so entirely alien to me now? I suppose the fault was mine. I never really knew him at all. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. “The keys are under the mat. I didn’t take a single thing you bought me. Except this sweater. And it got torn.” My voice was dead. “Tell me how much it costs. I’ll pay you back.” “You can’t afford it.” Timothy laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Did you really think I bought your clothes off the clearance rack? That was custom-made in Italy. How are you going to pay for it? With your pathetic entry-level salary? With your worthless pride?” “If you’ve got so much backbone, then take it off right now—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because I had already reached for the hem. One button. Two buttons. “Jesus Christ!” he roared, ripping his own jacket off and violently wrapping it around my shoulders. “Nicole, you have lost your fucking mind!” He shoved me into the passenger seat before I could react, locking the doors from the driver’s side. He drove recklessly, speeding all the way to his real home. A sprawling, gated estate in a neighborhood I had only ever seen in movies. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he ordered, dragging me into a massive bedroom. I looked around. The walk-in closet was filled with clothes in my exact size. The en-suite bathroom was stocked with the specific, drugstore brands I used. Sitting in the center of the massive king-sized bed was the giant, outrageously expensive stuffed bear I had once looked at in a store window but refused to let him buy. What was this supposed to be? Poison coated in sugar? A temporary anesthetic before the next round of psychological torture? My stomach heaved again. I gagged, my hair sticking to my tear-streaked face. Timothy frowned, stepping toward me, his voice suddenly shifting, laced with a strange urgency. “Nicole… are you…” Are you what? I saw a flicker of absolute elation cross his face, but it was instantly shattered by the sharp, aggressive click of high heels marching down the hardwood hallway. Una threw the bedroom doors open. She glared at me with pure, unfiltered hatred before raising her hand to slap me across the face. A visceral tremor shot through me. My body betrayed me, flinching violently as I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact. But the sting never came. Timothy had caught her wrist in mid-air. “What the hell is this?!” Una screamed, her face contorted in rage. “I told you to break her, not marry her! Timothy, did you actually fall in love with this trash?!” “She’s been a manipulative little bitch since we were kids! Stop letting her play you!” Timothy didn’t answer whether he loved me or not. He just stared at Una, his voice dangerously low. “The second you pushed me into her bed, you lost the right to ask me a damn thing.” I sat on the plush carpet, watching them scream at each other. A toxic, deeply entangled lovers’ quarrel. My head was spinning, my skin burning up with a fever. The last thing I heard through the haze was Una sobbing, “This is my room! Why would you put her in my room? You’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?!” I couldn’t hear the rest. I just smiled a little to myself. I smiled because I really was pathetic. To think, even for a second, that Timothy had an ounce of genuine feeling for me. He was nothing but a master manipulator, playing us both. 4. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room greeted me. Timothy was sitting by the bed. Dark, heavy bags shadowed his eyes, but a frantic, uncontainable smile stretched across his face. “You’re pregnant.” He reached out, tentatively resting his hand over my stomach. He pulled up the calendar on his phone. “I looked at some dates. What do you think of a spring wedding? We can still do the botanical garden venue you always wanted. I’ll fly a designer out for your dress. You can start looking at silhouettes.” “And as soon as the reception is over, we’re on a plane for the honeymoon. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Amalfi Coast? We can stay for a month—” He was rambling, completely manic, aggressively painting over the wreckage with promises of a future. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at my phone screen. There was an email from HR. I had been terminated, effective immediately. Orders from the top. I didn’t even have to ask. If it wasn’t Timothy’s doing, it was Una’s family pulling strings. Five years. I had bled for that company for five years. Gone in a single keystroke because I dared to exist in their orbit. A notification popped up. A trending video on TikTok. Una’s face filled the screen. I clicked it. She had a massive following—millions of subscribers who tuned in to watch her ‘day in the life of an heiress’ vlogs. Why did she get to live such a charmed, beautiful life? Did she deserve it? The video currently breaking the internet was her, makeup flawlessly messy, sobbing into the camera about her tragically stolen childhood romance. She talked about how she and Timothy were soulmates. How he rented out entire amusement parks for her birthdays. How he had bought her rooms full of diamonds. And then, she mentioned me. The manipulative, poverty-stricken homewrecker who clawed her way into their inner circle and seduced him away. Within minutes, the comments were a warzone. Thousands of people were threatening to dox me, calling for my head. My hands shook. I glanced at Timothy, who was now on the phone, loudly demanding a wedding planner’s availability. I opened my notes app. I typed everything out. I attached the screenshots from the Discord server. The high school medical records. And I hit post. I watched the likes climb. I watched her loyal fans call my scars fake, accusing me of lying about the bullying. But then, other people—people who remembered us from high school—started chiming in, validating my proof. The tide was turning. Then, the screen refreshed. Post deleted. Una’s team had scrubbed it. Timothy walked back into the room, ending his call, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Nicole, you need to stop being so impulsive,” he sighed. “Una is an influencer. She has to exaggerate things for views, it’s her job. I wouldn’t let her actually hurt you.” He paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Listen. We’re all going to be in the same social circles moving forward. You can’t make things this ugly. Just… go apologize to her. We’ll clear the air, smooth over the high school stuff, and put it behind us.” The corners of my mouth twitched into a terrifyingly empty smile. The void in my chest was so vast, it couldn’t even echo with anger anymore. I felt absolutely nothing. I nodded submissively. I let him dress me. I let him lead me by the hand into the VIP room of the city’s most exclusive restaurant. Timothy pressed a glass of cranberry juice into my hand as we walked in. Across the table sat Una, dripping in designer jewelry, looking at me with victorious, sneering eyes. She tilted her head. “Well? Apologize. Just like in high school. Get on your knees…” The room was packed with their friends. The same faces from the group chat. All of them smirking, waiting for the show. Just like they did when we were teenagers. I walked toward her, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I am so sorry, Una. Let me apologize to a worthless, psychotic bitch like you—” I slashed the glass forward, throwing the dark red juice violently into her face. She shrieked, stumbling back, the red liquid dripping down her Chanel blazer, ruining her flawless makeup. Before anyone could react, I grabbed a heavy wine bottle from the table and smashed it over her head, letting the wine pour over her hair. “I apologize for being prettier than you!” I screamed, the numbness shattering into absolute, feral rage. “I apologize for being smarter than you!” “I apologize that the boys you liked always looked at me! I apologize that you had to torture me just to feel like you were worth breathing the same air!” Hands grabbed at me. I didn’t know whose. I didn’t care. I smashed the neck of the bottle against the table and whipped around, pointing the jagged glass at the room. “Whoever touches me is getting cut! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!” Una was sobbing on the floor. I lunged, wrapping my hand into her extensions, hauling her up, and bringing my hand across her face in a vicious, echoing slap. “Apologize to you? I’d rather die, you piece of trash!”

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A girl suddenly collapsed onto her knees at my front door, and honestly, I was a little thrown. She was wailing, screaming about how she’d spent sixteen years searching for her mother, and apparently, that mother was my wife. I was standing there with a can of Coke in my hand, thinking to myself that this was about to be a hell of a show. I figured it was just another one of those high-society soap operas—a long-lost child coming to claim their inheritance. It’s a classic trope, right? After all, I’m currently the husband to a titan of industry. My wife adores me, we have kids, and I’m essentially living the “winner” script of a lifetime. But I didn’t expect the plot twist to hit so fast. She suddenly whipped around, pointed a trembling finger right at my nose, and started screaming. She called me a squatter. A fraud. She claimed I’d stolen her father’s rightful place, and she didn’t stop there—she called my two sons “bastards.” 1 “Mom!” The girl was practically face-down on the marble floor of the dining room entrance, sobbing at Diana’s feet. She was wearing a faded, washed-out T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looked up at Diana, who was sitting at the head of the table, and the floodgates just opened. “Sixteen years… I finally found you!” The entire room froze. Parker stopped mid-bite into his apple. Chase’s hand paused as he reached for his coffee. Even Walter, our long-time house manager, let his eyes widen just a fraction. Diana sat there, her brow slightly furrowed, her expression a mask of calm. She didn’t say a word. And me? I just took a long, satisfying sip of my Coke. Sugar and carbonation—the greatest invention in human history. Life throws a lot of curveballs at you, but I’ve always lived by one rule: even if the sky is falling, you might as well have a drink while you watch. The girl’s name was Jade. She was seventeen. According to her, she was the result of a one-night stand Diana had seventeen years ago at a place called The Midnight Vault. Her father was a guy named Ray. Apparently, he’d been a bartender there, spent one night with a very drunk Diana, and ended up raising a daughter alone for seventeen years. Now, Ray was supposedly on his deathbed, which gave Jade the courage to come “home.” “Mom, my dad is really fading. His only wish in this world is for me to take my rightful place in this family…” Jade’s voice was raw, her body shaking with tremors. “I know I shouldn’t be here, I know I’m a disruption, but I had nowhere else to go…” She sounded devastatingly sincere. Tears and snot were a mess on her face, and I could hear some of the younger house staff whispering in the hallway. Diana glanced at me. I gave her a small, supportive nod. “Get up for now,” Diana said, her voice steady. “Walter, arrange a guest room for her. And get in touch with the lab for a DNA test.” “Thank you, Mom! Thank you!” Jade sobbed, nearly kissing the floor again before the staff helped her up. As she stood, her eyes flickered over to me. There was a flash of pure, unadulterated hatred in that look. Then her gaze shifted to Parker and Chase. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her mouth. I saw it clearly. It was the smile of a winner. Like she’d already taken the crown. I’d first heard the rumor that Diana had a secret daughter from Walter during breakfast. Actually, it started with a text. Ping. Diana: “You up? Breakfast is on the table.” I sent back a blowing-kiss emoji and took my sweet time getting ready. My name is Gavin, and I am the husband of the Chairwoman of the Sterling Group. When I “woke up” in this life five years ago, I only remembered my name. But I quickly realized I’d hit the cosmic jackpot. My wife, Diana, was the eldest daughter of the Sterling empire and had already taken the reins as CEO. She’s five-nine, gorgeous, and looks like she stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial. She wasn’t easy at first. Word was she’d been through some trauma, and she treated me with a chilly indifference for the first few months. But I’m a romantic at heart—and a pragmatist. I wanted a life of luxury, so I set out to win over the Ice Queen. I learned her likes, her dislikes, and figured out exactly what made her feel safe. Slowly, she went from ignoring me to depending on me. Now? Now she won’t leave the house without a kiss. The first thing she says when she walks through the door is, “Honey, I’m home.” She insists on falling asleep in my arms, or she can’t sleep at all. At forty-something, Diana is the woman of my dreams. I finished my morning routine and headed downstairs. The dining room was already full. Diana was in her spot at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a deep navy silk robe. She smiled when she saw me. “There you are.” 2 “Morning,” I said, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking my seat. Across from me sat our sons, Chase and Parker. As soon as I sat down, Chase pushed a plate of freshly sliced fruit toward me. Parker, who was working on a breakfast sandwich, grinned. “Looking sharp today, Dad.” “Of course. These skin serums don’t apply themselves, you know.” “Was that new night cream any good?” “Game changer. I’ll order a jar for you.” “Thanks, Dad!” Diana looked at us, laughing softly as she shook her head. “You three. All you do is talk about shopping.” “What’s wrong? You tired of me spending your money yet?” I teased, shooting her a playful look. “Never. I work so you can spend it. That’s the deal.” Chase set his phone down, his face deadpan. “Mom, that was pathetic. Have some dignity.” “You’ll understand when you’re older. It’s called spoiling your husband.” “Whatever. You win.” I popped a piece of melon into my mouth, enjoying the quiet hum of the house. “What’s the schedule today?” Diana asked. “Spa in the morning, then tea with the guys in the afternoon. You?” “Board meeting this morning. I should be back early afternoon.” “Dinner together, then?” “Definitely. What are you craving?” “I’ll think about it. Let’s decide when you get home.” “Deal.” That was when Walter walked in. Walter had been with the family for over thirty years. He was the definition of “unflappable,” but today, he looked genuinely rattled. “Chairwoman. Sir.” “What is it, Walter?” Diana asked. Walter hesitated. “There is a young woman outside. Seventeen, perhaps. She’s asking for you, Ma’am.” “Who is she?” “She claims…” Walter paused, clearing his throat. “She claims to be your daughter.” The room went silent for two beats. Diana’s brow pinched together. She looked at me. I kept chewing my melon, thinking, Well, here we go. The secret-love-child plot. Classic. But honestly, a daughter didn’t bother me. This family has more than enough money to go around. “And?” I asked through a mouthful of fruit. “She’s been at the gate for two hours. Security told her to leave, but she refused to budge,” Walter said. “She says she won’t leave until she sees the Chairwoman.” “Bring her in,” I said. “Let’s finish breakfast first, then we’ll deal with it.” Diana nodded in agreement. Walter bowed and left. Parker looked up at me. “Dad, aren’t you… worried?” “About what?” I asked, sliding a piece of bacon onto his plate. “What if she’s actually…” “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Whether she was blood or not—that was a question for a lab tech. It wasn’t something I needed to lose sleep over. Jade’s first day in the house was a masterclass in performance art. She spent her time telling the staff how much she’d suffered growing up, subtly painting me as the “other man” who had dismantled her rightful family. But that was just the appetizer. The real show began when her father, Ray, showed up. The day before the DNA results were due, Jade brought him onto the estate. No warning, no permission. She just marched him right through the front door. Ray was in his late forties. When he stepped out of the car, he gawked at the house, muttering, “Jesus, look at this place. It’s a palace!” He walked into the living room, crashed onto the designer sofa, and crossed his legs. He looked at a maid and snapped, “Get me some tea. Earl Grey. High-end stuff, don’t give me the cheap tea bags.” The maid looked at me. I gave her a small nod. He took a sip of the tea, then wandered into the dining room. He ran a finger over the table. “Nice wood. Needs to be polished better, though. Can’t have scratches on a piece like this.” Then he went into the garden, pointing at the prize-winning rose bushes. “Too bright. I don’t like roses. We’ll rip these out next week and plant lilies. I’ve always been a lily man.” Our head gardener looked like he was about to have a stroke. At lunch, Ray sat himself down before anyone else, grabbing a fork and digging in. “Fish is good. Shrimp is decent. The soup is a bit salty, tell the chef to dial it back next time.” He critiqued every bite. Parker sat with his fork hovering in mid-air, unsure if he was even allowed to eat. Chase leaned back, his eyes turning cold and dangerous. Diana wasn’t home; she was still at the office. “Ray,” I said, finally speaking up. “How are you feeling? Jade mentioned you were quite ill.” Ray waved a hand dismissively, his mouth full of sea bass. “Whatever. You should probably start thinking about where you’re going to live once those DNA results come back, Gavin.” “I wouldn’t worry about my living arrangements if I were you. Do you need me to call a doctor to look at you?” Ray’s expression flickered for a second. “No, no. I know my own body.” For a man on his deathbed, he had a hell of an appetite. I saw right through him, but I didn’t say a word. That afternoon, Ray started “reorganizing” the estate. He made the staff move the crystal vases because the “vibe” was off. He told them to change the table linens because the color was “unlucky.” He walked down the gallery, demanding the paintings be re-hung. “They look cluttered.” He even wandered into the garage and pointed at my red Ferrari. “I like this one. I’ll take the keys for this starting tomorrow.” The driver looked at him awkwardly. “Sir, that’s Mr. Gavin’s car.” Ray just shrugged. “He can get a new one.” Finally, he found his way into my walk-in closet. He stood there, staring at the walls of custom suits and watches, his eyes gleaming. He reached out and touched a Patek Philippe, his fingers lingering on the gold casing. “This is nice. I could get used to this.” He turned and saw me leaning against the doorframe. He froze for a second, then gave me a greasy smile. “Just looking, Gavin. Just opening my eyes to how the other half lives.” “Look all you want,” I said softly. 3 He spent twenty minutes in there. When he finally walked out, the look in his eyes had shifted entirely. I knew that look. It was greed. Pure, unadulterated entitlement. The look of a man who believed all of this already belonged to him. That evening, Diana came home. Ray transformed instantly. He became the picture of the tragic, pining lover—soft-spoken, fragile, heartbroken. He stood in the foyer, eyes downcast, his voice trembling. “Diana… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. But I just… I missed you so much.” He started to weep. Real, cinematic tears. Jade joined in, and the two of them held each other, sobbing loudly enough to wake the neighbors. Diana watched them, her face unreadable. She said only one thing: “The results come in tomorrow. Everything will be clear then.” Ray nodded, wiping his eyes. “Thank you, Diana. I don’t want anything for myself. I just want Jade to have her name. That’s all I need before I go.” I almost laughed out loud. He didn’t want anything? This was the same man who had been cruising in my Ferrari, eyeing my Patek, and demanding the roses be dug up. He didn’t want a “name.” He wanted the keys to the kingdom. The next morning, Ray stopped pretending altogether. He was up at 5:30 AM, barking orders at the kitchen staff. “This oatmeal is too thin! Do it over!” “The eggs are overcooked! I wanted them poached, not rubber!” “This milk is cold! Heat it up!” He was sitting in Diana’s chair at the head of the table, his feet up, picking at his teeth. When I walked down, I saw him there. I didn’t make a scene. “Morning, Ray. Sleep well?” He looked at me, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Not bad. Bed’s a bit soft, though. I’ll have the staff swap it for a firm orthopedic mattress tomorrow.” “Sure. I’ll let Walter know.” He spent the morning continuing his “renovations.” He moved the sofas. He tore down the artwork in the hallway, complaining they were “too depressing” and needed “bright floral prints” instead. Then he went back to the garden and pointed at the peonies. “These are tacky. Rip ’em out. I want red roses everywhere!” Our gardener finally snapped. “Sir, those peonies are Mr. Gavin’s favorite. He’s been tending them for five years!” Ray glared at him. “Who cares what he likes? We’ll see who’s running things by dinner time!” He leaned in closer to the gardener. “Besides, my daughter is the only real heir to this fortune. Remember that.” Parker heard that while we were playing chess in the sunroom. “Dad, did you hear what he said?” “I heard.” “You aren’t angry?” “What’s the point of being angry?” I moved a knight. “Let him play. Let him make as much noise as he wants. The louder they are, the harder they fall.” Parker thought about it, then grinned. “You’re letting him dig his own grave, aren’t you?” “Smart kid.” In the afternoon, Ray took the Ferrari out. When he came back, the car was stuffed with shopping bags. He had the staff carry everything to his room and then stood in the middle of the living room to make a grand announcement. “This house is far too dated. We’re doing a full remodel. I want the living room to be Neo-Classical, the dining room French Provincial, and the master suite should be old-world dark wood. We’re putting a fountain in the driveway and a gazebo in the back. And the pool? It’s embarrassing. We’re ripping it out and starting over!” He turned his gaze toward me. “You don’t mind, do you, Gavin? I’m just trying to look out for the family. This place hasn’t had a man’s touch in seventeen years.” I smiled. “Whatever makes you happy, Ray.” 4 He blinked, clearly surprised that I wasn’t putting up a fight. When Diana finally got home that night, Ray slipped back into his “feeble” persona. He brought a cup of tea to her study door, his voice a whisper. “You look exhausted, Diana. You work too hard.” Diana took the tea and gave him a long look. “You went out today?” Ray’s face paled slightly. “Yes… I did.” “In the Ferrari?” “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken your car—” “That isn’t my car. It’s Gavin’s,” Diana said, her tone icy and flat. “You should have asked his permission.” Ray froze. The message was loud and clear: in this house, his opinion didn’t matter. Mine did. Ray forced a smile. “Of course. My mistake. I’ll apologize to Gavin tomorrow.” As he backed out of the room, the mask slipped. His face twisted into a look of cold, poisonous resentment. Back in the guest wing, Jade was waiting for him. “Dad? How did it go?” Ray slammed the door and hissed, “Diana is still protecting that man. She wouldn’t even let me touch the damn car!” “It doesn’t matter,” Jade said, her voice hard. “Once the DNA test comes back, how do we kick them out?” “Don’t rush!” Ray snapped. “Everything here belongs to us. If it wasn’t for that guy, I’d be the one living here. I’d be the one Diana came home to. I’d be the one driving that Ferrari!” He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glowing with a manic intensity. “Tomorrow, when the results are read, you play the victim. Make sure Diana sees how much you’ve suffered. Then we make her throw that man and his two little brats out onto the street!” “I’m ready,” Jade replied instantly. “They’ve been living my life for too long. It’s time they gave it back.” She had been raised on this story for seventeen years. In her mind, she wasn’t an intruder. She was the rightful queen returning to her throne. On the day of the reveal, Diana stayed home. She sat in the library, the sealed envelope resting on the desk in front of her. Jade and Ray sat on one sofa; Parker, Chase, and I sat on the other. “Open it,” I said quietly. Diana tore the seal, pulled out the document, and flipped to the final page.

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The quarterly all-hands meeting was in full swing. I was huddled in the third row, notebook open, trying to catch every word of the projected growth charts, when Howard’s voice sliced through the air like a dull blade. “Caitlin?” I froze. Howard, the CEO, was staring at me from the podium. His expression was a mix of calculated disdain and public theater. He looked me up and down, his lip curling into a sneer that didn’t match his expensive suit. “Is the office climate control that vital to your existence?” he asked, his voice dripping with irony. “Because, from where I’m sitting, your AC usage is significantly more impressive than your sales numbers this month.” A few people in the front row snickered. I looked up, blinking, the blood rushing to my face. “I’m sorry?” “You’re always the last one to leave,” he continued, leaning over the lectern. “The ‘dedicated employee’ act is getting a little thin, don’t you think? Or is it just that you’re too cheap to pay your own electric bill at home, so you’re squatting in my office to soak up the company’s utilities?” The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. To Howard, eight years of being the first one in and the last one out—the literal backbone of this company—amounted to nothing more than a play for free air conditioning. My face, usually a mask of professional neutrality, began to harden. Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, Howard turned to his wife, Regina, our “Head of Finance” by way of nepotism. “Regina, get a breakdown of the utility bills for the last quarter,” Howard commanded. “Calculate the overages and dock them directly from the paycheck of whoever’s been logging the most ‘overtime’ hours. I want to see if anyone has the guts to treat this office like a public library once they’re paying for the privilege.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. After nearly a decade of building this place from the ground up, I was being branded a parasite. Just as the anger hit its boiling point, a translucent window flickered into existence right before my eyes. [Exploitative Workplace Behavior Detected. Activate the ‘Anti-Leech’ Protocol?] I stared at Howard’s smug, oily face. He really thought he could cast aside the person who had carried him for eight years. I didn’t hesitate. I thought the word Yes with every fiber of my being. Fine, Howard. If you want to talk about who’s been living off whom, let’s look at the receipts. … [Protocol Activated. Commencing audit of Employee Net Value.] The cold, synthetic voice echoed in my mind, but a sharp, high-pitched hum vibrated through the meeting room. Howard’s face went pale. He slammed his hand on the mahogany table, pointing at the empty air in front of me. “Who authorized that? Shut it down! We don’t need some glitchy software running during a board meeting!” He turned his fury back to me. “Caitlin, you’re a utility thief. You don’t get to run audits on me.” Before I could move, Brenda, the Administrative Lead and Regina’s loyal shadow, leaned in, her voice a shrill hiss. “If anyone’s doing math, it’s the company! Do you have any idea how many resources you’ve drained in eight years? You drink the most coffee, you burn through reams of paper, and you’re running the industrial AC for four extra hours every single night!” Brenda caught Howard’s eye, a frantic look passing between them. Howard caught the signal and crossed his arms, regaining his bravado. “You know what? Fine. You want to talk numbers? Let’s talk.” Howard leaned back, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “Based on commercial electricity rates and your four-hour nightly ‘squatting’ sessions, you owe us at least seventy-six thousand dollars over the last eight years. Tell you what—since you’re practically furniture here, we’ll round it up. Call it an even eighty grand, and we won’t involve the lawyers.” I let out a laugh that felt like a serrated edge. For eight years, I had been the top-performing sales lead. I had built our live-streaming department from a single ring light in a closet to a multi-million dollar operation. Every brick in this building had my sweat dried into the mortar. I lived on cold caffeine and three hours of sleep, writing scripts that turned Howard from a guy in a basement into a “disruptive entrepreneur.” And now that the coffers were full, he was worried about the price of a few kilowatts? He’d been “delaying” my commission checks for six months, and now he was trying to shake me down for eighty thousand dollars in light bulbs? I pulled my digital recorder from my pocket and slammed it onto the table with a sharp clack. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “Let’s open the books. Let’s see if I owe you for the air I breathe, or if you owe me for the eight years of my life I’ve spent keeping this ship from sinking.” Regina, standing by the coffee station, suddenly lurched forward and threw her lukewarm latte directly at my face. “You think because you had a few good quarters you can talk to the CEO like that?” she spat, her eyes full of venom. “You’re nothing but a platform baby. You made money because the company provided the stage, not because you’re special.” I wiped the brown liquid from my cheek, feeling the sting of the heat. Regina didn’t stop. She looked at the room, her voice booming with the authority of a woman who had never worked a day in her life. “Caitlin Rossi has been found guilty of gross misuse of company resources. Her commissions for the last two quarters are hereby forfeited and will be redistributed as a performance bonus to the rest of the staff.” I actually chuckled. I was a Senior Lead, yet every time they “hired” some new associate director—usually a nephew or a friend—they started them at a higher base than mine. I hadn’t complained because I lived for the hustle, for the wins. But this? This was a mugging. Howard saw my expression and tapped his ring on the table. Clink. Clink. “Don’t look so heartbroken, Caitlin. Anyone can write a script. Anyone can pick products for a stream. You’re a glorified middleman. Honestly, you should be grateful we aren’t suing you for the full amount of the overhead you’ve wasted.” Watching him prepare to butcher the golden goose was surreal. Did he really think the millions of followers we had stayed for the “platform”? I had spent years testing products until my stomach was in knots and my skin was raw from cheap cosmetics, all to ensure our brand remained bulletproof. I’d stayed up until 3 AM crafting the “spontaneous” jokes that made our viewers feel like family. I pushed my chair back, the screech of metal on linoleum echoing through the silence. I looked Howard dead in the eye. “Stop the gaslighting, Howard. We’re settling this today. If I’m a ‘leech,’ then pay me out my back pay and my commissions, and I’ll walk.” Regina stood her ground. “We’ll settle it, alright. By the time I’m done with the audit, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t paying us for the privilege of having worked here.” I reached for the virtual “Confirm” button on the system floating in my peripheral vision. Howard’s eyes widened. He lunged across the table, trying to grab my wrist. “Caitlin, don’t play games with me! This is my house. You don’t make the rules.” He lowered his voice, his tone shifting to a fake, fatherly concern. “Look, we’ll just wash the commissions against the ‘damages.’ You keep your job, I keep the lights on. It’s a mercy, really. Don’t be ungrateful.” I pulled my hand back as if his touch were toxic. “So eight years of growth is worth a few coffee pods and some AC? Pay me my balance, Howard. Fire me or don’t, but pay me.” Howard kicked his chair over, the facade of the “visionary leader” finally cracking. “You think you’re so smart? You were a pathetic intern who couldn’t even format a PDF when I found you! I built the studio for you! I took out the loans! Without me, you’re just another girl with a degree and no future. You owe me a training fee just for the lessons I’ve taught you!” I went silent. I remembered the early days. His “dream” was a failing vintage snack shop. He had zero sales for two months. I was the one who convinced him to pivot to digital. I was the one who spent eighteen hours a day on the phone with vendors. I remembered him getting drunk the night we hit our first ten thousand orders, crying and telling me we were partners for life. It turns out “partners for life” only lasts until the bank account hits seven figures. Regina laughed, crossing her arms. “Hear that? You’re a company-made product. That million-dollar commission check you’re dreaming of? It belongs to the house. In fact, between the ‘training fees,’ the electricity, and the office supplies you’ve wasted, you’re in the red.” Howard grabbed a pen and scribbled a number on a notepad, shoving it toward me. “Market rate for training a senior lead is three hundred thousand. Plus the eighty for utilities. Plus the miscellaneous ‘misuse’ fees… let’s call it six hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Consider it a lucky number. You have three days to pay the company back, or my lawyers will make sure you never work in this town again.” He stood up and marched out, Regina and the rest of the “leadership” trailing behind him like a funeral procession. I sat in the empty conference room for a long time. My phone buzzed. Notification: Your corporate Slack and Email accounts have been deactivated. I stared at the screen. I had been naive enough to think we were a team. I had sacrificed my 20s for a family business that saw me as nothing more than an overhead expense. Fine. If they wanted to play “Family Business,” they were about to find out what happens when the person who built the house decides to take the foundation with her. I pulled out my personal phone and sent a voice note to the one person Howard feared most. “Mr. Henderson? It’s Caitlin. You mentioned a standing offer for double my current salary and a seat at the executive table? I’m interested. And I’m not coming alone. I’m bringing the entire production team.” The reply was instant. [My office. One hour. Let’s change the industry.] I walked back to my desk. I didn’t pack my photos. I didn’t take my mug. Instead, I plugged an encrypted drive into my workstation. I pulled the master vendor list—a document I had spent five years perfecting, categorized by reliability, lead times, and secret pricing. I didn’t just copy it. I deleted the primary contacts and scrambled the sorting algorithms. It wasn’t “stealing” if it was my personal intellectual property—I had never signed a non-compete. Then, I sat back and waited. Joy, our top-tier influencer and my closest work-friend, burst into the area, her face pale. “Caitlin! Regina just marched her sister into the studio. She told me to step aside because Tiffany is taking over the 3 PM livestream. She told me I had thirty minutes to ‘train’ her or I was out!” This wasn’t just a restructuring. This was an execution. I followed Joy to the studio. When we stepped inside, my heart sank. Tiffany, Regina’s younger sister, was caked in heavy club makeup and wearing a dress that was better suited for a Vegas lounge than a mid-day shopping stream. She was looking at the high-end organic snacks on the table with visible disgust. “Who picked this junk? It’s all food,” Tiffany complained, adjusted her camera angle to show more cleavage. “I’m not eating on camera. I’m a dancer. Clear this out. Get some champagne. I’m going to do a ‘wine and body’ segment for the guys in the chat. That’s how you get real tips.” “You won’t get tips,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “You’ll get a permanent ban.” Tiffany rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever. Our audience is fifty percent men, right? They don’t want to hear Joy’s ‘funny stories.’ They want to see a girl who’s actually hot.” “Our audience is sixty percent women,” I corrected, stepping into the light. “And eighty percent of the actual purchases come from them. You alienate the women, you lose the revenue. You’re not selling a lifestyle; you’re selling a cheap distraction.” Regina kicked the studio door open, pointing a finger at Joy. “I told you to train her, not go crying to your little protector. Since you clearly can’t tell who signs your checks anymore, Joy, you can pack your bags. We don’t keep people who bite the hand that feeds them.” Joy looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. She was the best “girl-next-door” talent in the business, and they were tossing her away for a TikTok trope. I looked around the studio—the place where I’d spent more nights than my own bedroom. I looked at the crew, who were watching in stunned silence. “If the company wants to stop selling quality and start selling… whatever this is,” I said, gesturing to Tiffany, “then we’re done here. Joy, let’s go.” As we turned to leave, Howard appeared in the hallway, blocking our path. He looked frantic. “Caitlin! I knew it! You’re trying to poach my talent! You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” I was confused for a split second—how did he know? Then I saw my personal phone in his hand. He held it up like a trophy. “I have cameras at every station, Caitlin. I saw you leave your phone unlocked when you went to the studio. I saw the messages to Henderson.” He sneered. “I’ve already messaged him back from your account, telling him to screw off. I also told him you’ve been embezzling from me for years.” My blood ran cold. He had violated the one boundary I had left. “You’re not just paying me the six hundred thousand now,” Howard barked, his face turning a dark shade of purple. “For poaching and trade secret theft, I’m adding a two-million-dollar penalty. And if you want Joy or the rest of these losers to leave? That’s another three million in ‘buyout’ fees. You owe me five point six million dollars, Caitlin. You aren’t leaving this building until I have a signed confession and a payment plan.” The years of quiet endurance, the skipped holidays, the ruined skin, the stomach ulcers—it all crystallized into a single, white-hot point of rage. I didn’t think. I just swung. My palm connected with his cheek with a crack that silenced the entire floor. Howard stumbled back, clutching his face, his eyes wide with shock. “You… you hit me? That’s a twenty-thousand-dollar assault charge, you bitch!” “I don’t care if it’s fifty thousand,” I snarled, stepping into his space. “Give me my phone. Now.” I lunged for it, but Howard shoved me back. I tripped, my lower back slamming into the sharp edge of a metal filing cabinet. The pain was blinding. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Howard stood over me, laughing. “Too late. I already blocked Henderson. I told him the truth—that you’re a leech who’s finally been caught.”

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I floated suspended in the damp, heavy air, looking down at my own body crumpled in the dirt. My chest ached with a phantom tightness, but more than anything, my heart swelled with a profound, suffocating guilt toward my mother. I’ve embarrassed her again, I thought. Just like always. It all started with the eight-mile weighted ruck march. My mother was the Company Commander of our grueling advanced training regiment. To dispel any whispers of nepotism, she insisted that I—despite my documented, severe asthma—participate in the field exercise. I had a forty-pound tactical pack strapped to my shoulders. With every step I dragged forward, it felt like swallowing broken glass. I had to stop and gasp for air just to keep moving. By the halfway point, the edges of my vision were blurring into dark vignettes. I couldn’t hold on anymore. I reached into my cargo pocket for my rescue inhaler, just needing one quick burst of albuterol to open my screaming lungs. But before my fingers could even close around the plastic casing, Squad Leader Kelsey snatched it from behind me. Without breaking stride, she chucked it over the edge of the ravine. “Captain!” Kelsey yelled toward the front of the column, her voice dripping with sycophantic eagerness. “Gemma is trying to slack off again! Don’t worry, ma’am, I won’t let her drag the whole company down!” Far up the trail, my mother paused. She glanced back over her shoulder, her face a mask of rigid, exhaustion-fueled irritation. “The entire company is waiting on you, Gemma. Do you have absolutely no shame?” her voice cut through the humid air, sharp as a switchblade. “If you can’t walk, crawl. If you can’t crawl, roll. Do not humiliate me out here.” She turned back around. She didn’t look at me again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper and kept pushing forward. My chest felt like it was caught in an industrial vice, tightening with every frantic, shallow breath. Black spots danced furiously in front of my eyes. Finally, around mile five, the invisible vice snapped shut. My knees buckled, and I slammed heavily into the unforgiving earth. I never got back up. 1 Several cadets marched past me as the column moved out. “The Captain is brutal, man. Even to her own kid.” “You kidding? Especially to her own kid. Zero special treatment.” “I thought her daughter was slated for Public Affairs? Desk duty, taking photos. She shouldn’t even be on a tactical ruck.” “You don’t get it. The Captain forced her into it to prove a point. If she went easy on her kid, she’d lose the company’s respect.” The hushed murmurs drifted into my ears. I lay face down, my cheek pressed into the jagged gravel and wet soil. The massive rucksack was still crushing my spine, pinning me to the ground. My tactical uniform blended perfectly with the underbrush. They didn’t even realize I was there. They just stepped right over me. I thought I heard the dull, sickening crunch of my own ribs giving way under a heavy combat boot. As the last person passed, their sole caught the edge of my uniform sleeve, flipping my arm. It left my hand clawing at the dirt—a frozen testament to the fact that, even in my final moments, I had been desperately trying to stand back up. Kelsey, sweeping the rear, slowed her pace as she approached. She looked down at me, her eyes narrowing. She nudged my shoulder with the steel toe of her boot. “Why are you hiding in the weeds? Trying to catch a break?” she sneered. “Get up. Now. Before I go tell your mother.” I didn’t move. She kicked me again, harder this time. My shoulder jerked. When I still didn’t respond, she grabbed me by the webbing of my tactical vest and dragged me roughly into the tall grass off the trail. Seeing me flop into the weeds like a sack of wet sand, she let out a dry, contemptuous laugh. “You’re a hell of an actress, I’ll give you that. Playing dead to get out of a hike. No wonder you wanted Public Affairs.” A few stragglers from the rear guard caught up. Seeing me sprawled in the brush, they slowed down, whispering among themselves. Kelsey’s eyes darted around. She took a step back, pitching her voice loud enough to echo off the trees. “Gemma!” she gasped in mock horror. “Are you seriously just going to lay there and wait for the Captain to come carry you?” The group of cadets broke into muted laughter, the mockery thick in the air. “Must be nice, being the Captain’s kid.” “VIP treatment. When your legs get tired, mommy comes to the rescue.” I drifted in the air above them, a silent spectator. I watched them circle my corpse like kids looking at roadkill. Kelsey turned toward the high ground up ahead and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Captain Rossi! Gemma stopped again! She’s on the ground playing dead!” Up on the ridge, my mother stopped. She turned around. I watched her begin the march down the incline, her strides long and furious. And as she approached, a small, childish thought flickered in my ghostly mind. If she realizes I’m dead… will it break her heart? She reached me, stopping exactly three paces away. “Gemma. How long do you plan on throwing this tantrum?” She stared down at me. Her voice was absolute ice. “Forty people in this company. They are all waiting on you. Are you really this selfish?” Silence. “You need to get it through your head that out here, you aren’t my daughter. You are a recruit. Because of your pathetic display, you’ve killed the regiment’s momentum. When we get back to base, you’re running a hundred laps and standing at attention outside the barracks for two hours.” Kelsey’s lips curled into a faint, triumphant smirk. “Captain, do you think she’s… actually hurt?” “Hurt?” My mother paused. “I know my daughter. She’s been pulling this exact stunt since she was a little girl. The second things don’t go her way, she drops to the ground and makes a scene.” Her words drifted up to me, frigid and dismissive. “She just wants to break me. She wants me to coddle her in front of the entire company, just to prove she’s special to me.” I hovered beside my mother, my translucent hands reaching out, desperate to explain. No, Mom. I wasn’t trying to force your hand. I died. She said she knew me. But the girl she knew was a memory from childhood. She didn’t know the woman I had become. She didn’t know how much I had learned to swallow the pain. She didn’t know that by mile three, my heart was already spasming in my chest. She didn’t know that my inhaler—my only lifeline—had been ripped away and tossed into a ravine by the very girl she was trying to impress. Mom, I didn’t want to make you soft. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I just… I couldn’t walk anymore. I’m so sorry, Mom. I embarrassed you again. 2 When I still didn’t move, my mother’s annoyance flared into genuine rage. She closed the distance in two quick strides, her eyes narrowing at the patch of flattened grass. “Gemma.” No answer. She raised her voice, a sharp, military bark. “Gemma, drag your ass out of there right now.” The wind swept through the tall grass, revealing half of my mud-caked uniform. My mother saw it. She parted the brush. I was face down, my shoulders sunken into the earth. From her angle, it looked exactly like I was deliberately burying my face in the dirt, stubbornly refusing to look at her. My mother inhaled sharply. The air around her turned venomous. “Wow. You’ve really perfected the dead weight routine, haven’t you? What, are you trying to force my hand like you did back then?” A memory hit me with sudden, blinding clarity. I was twelve. My parents had both been given orders for a dangerous overseas deployment. I had screamed, cried, and ultimately faked a severe asthma attack just to force my mother to stay behind. She stayed. But my father went. And a stray bullet in a desert thousands of miles away made sure he never came back. After that day, my mother became a different person. Whenever my chest seized up, whenever I genuinely couldn’t breathe, she looked at me with cold suspicion. She thought I was always lying. Her voice trembled with barely contained fury. “You think you can play mind games with me?” She crouched down, her hands violently twisting into the collar of my tactical shirt. She hauled my upper body out of the grass and slammed me back down against the wet earth, handling me with the rough, mechanical detachment of dealing with an enemy combatant. She pressed her hand hard against the back of my neck, shoving my face into the damp, decaying leaves and mud. “Great acting,” she hissed. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. Lieutenant Callahan, the platoon leader, jogged up. He stopped short, his eyes widening as he saw the Captain pinning her own daughter to the dirt. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke. “Captain… should I radio for the medics?” “Cancel that,” my mother snapped, cutting him off. “She has faked sickness since she was in middle school. She plays the victim to get pity. If I don’t break her of this habit today, it’s going to ruin her.” Her grip on my collar tightened. My head lolled limply against her knuckles, swaying with the movement. “I am going to ask you one last time, Gemma. Are you getting up?” She let go. My forehead hit the ground with a sickening, hollow thud. She stood up, towering over me, her chest heaving. “Fine. You want to stay down?” She raised her leg. The reinforced toe of her combat boot drove hard into my thigh. “Get up.” Another kick. This one to my ribs. “Keep faking. Go ahead.” A third kick. To my shoulder. Callahan couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward. “Captain, that’s enough!” My mother shoved him back. She leaned down, grabbed me by both shoulders, and hauled my limp body up. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. Smack. The sound was sharp and terrible in the mountain wind. My head snapped violently to the side. “Are you awake now?” Another slap. “Stop faking.” A third. “Don’t you ever lie to me again.” Callahan grabbed her arm, physically pulling her away. “Captain! Stop! Something is wrong! Look at her face—” My mother wrenched her arm out of his grip, but her gaze finally locked onto my face. She stared at me for three agonizing seconds. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, her voice laced with disgust. “You actually put on corpse makeup to trick me? I knew I shouldn’t have let you anywhere near this regiment. You are a complete embarrassment.” She released me, letting me drop like a stone back into the weeds. “If she wants to lay there, let her lay there. We’ll see how long her little protest lasts.” She turned and walked away. After a few paces, she stopped and threw a look over her shoulder at the Lieutenant. “Pass the word down. Double-time the pace. Anyone who falls behind stays behind.” Callahan opened his mouth to argue, but she was already marching back to the front. He cast one last, tortured look at the brush before jogging after her. I hovered right where I fell. I looked down at my own body. The left side of my face was severely swollen. The blood trickling from the corner of my mouth had already dried into a dark crust. My uniform was painted with the muddy imprints of combat boots, and my shoulder rested at a grotesque, unnatural angle where it had been crushed. I was dead. I wasn’t supposed to feel physical pain anymore. But for some reason, my soul felt like it was being torn apart. 3 Callahan had only taken a few steps toward the column when his boot kicked something hard in the grass. He paused, looking down. It was an Albuterol inhaler. He recognized it instantly as the one I carried everywhere. A deep crease formed between his brows. He picked it up and immediately shouted for Kelsey. Kelsey, who had seamlessly blended back into the middle of the formation, jogged over at the sound of her name. “Lieutenant? What is it?” Callahan stepped into her space, holding the plastic inhaler right in front of her eyes. “This is Gemma’s inhaler. Why is it in the dirt miles from where she collapsed? I recall Gemma mentioning before we shipped out that you took her spare. Is that true?” Kelsey’s eyes flickered with panic. She took a half-step back. “Sir? I don’t know what you’re implying.” “I’m asking if you threw her asthma medication into the woods. Do you realize that kind of hazing can be fatal?” Kelsey’s voice dropped an octave, trembling. “No, sir. I didn’t. Why would I touch her meds? She’s probably just making things up to get me in trouble.” She gathered her confidence, her voice growing louder, as if volume could make the lie real. “Besides, she was faking the whole time anyway! The Captain said it herself—she’s been faking sick since she was a kid. What does this have to do with me?” Several cadets nearby slowed down, rubbernecking at the confrontation. “Looks like the Squad Leader is getting chewed out. You never see Callahan that mad.” “I heard he said she tossed Gemma’s inhaler.” “Wait, that inhaler? I think I actually saw her—” Before the cadet could finish the sentence, my mother’s voice cut through the trees like a whip. “Why is there a bottleneck here? Keep moving!” Callahan and Kelsey turned simultaneously. My mother marched toward them, her expression entirely unreadable, her eyes dead and cold. Callahan immediately stepped to her, holding out the plastic device. “Captain, please look at this. Isn’t this Gemma’s rescue inhaler?” My mother gave it a fleeting, disinterested glance. “Captain…” Kelsey’s voice wavered, immediately injecting tears into her tone. “I swear I didn’t touch it. I saw the bottle earlier and just asked her what it was…” “Enough.” My mother cut off Kelsey’s frantic defense. She glanced at the worn label on the canister. And then, just as Callahan opened his mouth to press the issue, my mother snatched the inhaler from his hand and chucked it blindly into the thick, impenetrable brush. “Move out. We’re burning daylight.” Callahan stood frozen in the mud, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. He tried one last time. “Ma’am, I am not comfortable leaving Gemma out here. If she really is having a medical emergency—” “I said she is faking,” my mother exploded, her voice echoing violently through the woods. Whatever nerve Callahan had struck, it triggered a raw, defensive fury. “You just saw her! She’d rather play dead in the mud than keep up with this unit. This isn’t just a discipline issue anymore, Lieutenant. It’s a character defect.” She pointed a finger hard at Callahan’s chest. “The minute this exercise is over, I am filing the paperwork for her immediate discharge. I will not have a manipulative coward in my regiment. And as a Platoon Leader, your focus should be on the unit, not letting yourself get manipulated by one malingerer.” She leaned in. “Not another word. One more word and you’ll be running those hundred laps with her.” Callahan’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle leaped in his cheek. But he didn’t say another word. A cold breeze swept over the trail, rustling the dead leaves. The blood seeping from underneath my body had already soaked deep into the earth, coagulating into a dark, sticky mass. I floated in the air, watching my mother’s rigid back as she marched away. Callahan had been so close. He had almost uncovered the truth. Just one step away. But my mother chose to believe Kelsey over me. With her own hands, she had taken the very last shred of hope for me, and she had buried it. 4 It was pitch black by the time the company returned to base camp. A sudden, freezing drizzle began to fall. The few floodlights around the staging area cut through the rain, casting everything in a sickly, jaundiced yellow. My mother stood at the front of the formation with her clipboard, conducting roll call. She barked out the names, one by one. Each was met with a crisp “Here, ma’am.” Until she reached the third name from the bottom. She paused. “Gemma Rossi.” Silence. She called it again, sharper this time. “Gemma Rossi.” Only the sound of rain hitting the muddy tarmac answered her. My mother slowly raised her head, her eyes scanning the exhausted, rain-slicked faces of the cadets. “Where is she?” When no one spoke, she folded the roster, shoved it into her rain jacket, and let out a short, hollow breath. “Fine. She wants to play hide and seek.” She squared her shoulders, addressing the entire company. Her voice carried over the storm. “Listen up. As of tonight, Cadet Rossi is dismissed from this program. Anyone who shrinks from duty, who abandons their unit in the field, has no place in my command. I am filing the discharge papers tonight. Let her be a lesson to the rest of you. Dismissed.” The formation broke in utter silence. In the front row, Kelsey kept her head bowed, but the very corner of her mouth twitched. My mother turned on her heel and marched to the command tent. Callahan hesitated for a agonizing second before jogging after her. “Captain, it’s pouring out there. She’s alone in the woods—” “She knows how to hide,” my mother snapped, not even looking at him. “You really think she’s just sitting out there letting herself get rained on?” Callahan went quiet. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles stark white against the gloom. The rain was coming down in sheets now. Callahan stood in the doorway of the command tent, watching the deluge outside, then turned back to my mother. She was sitting behind a folding tactical desk, illuminated by a harsh LED lantern, furiously filling out the discharge forms. The scratch of her pen against the paper was loud and rhythmic. Callahan stepped forward. “Captain. Requesting permission to take a search detail out for her.” She didn’t look up from the paperwork. “Denied.” “Ma’am, the temperature is dropping. If she’s actually hurt—” She slammed the pen down and finally looked at him. Her eyes were hard. “Did she cast some sort of spell on you, Lieutenant?” Callahan blinked, caught off guard. “She has been doing this exact routine since she was a child,” my mother said, her voice dripping with fatigue. “The second she doesn’t get her way, she hides. She forces the whole family to panic and search for her. And when she’s finally found, she turns on the tears and plays the victim.” She leaned back in her chair, a look of profound disgust crossing her features. “I am not falling for it again.” Callahan’s voice dropped, turning dark and heavy. “Captain. What if she isn’t faking? What if she’s really—” For a fraction of a second, the color completely drained from my mother’s face. But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. “Are you lecturing me on how to run my command?” “I’m just saying, whether you plan to discipline her or discharge her, we need to bring her back to base first. Leaving her out there… isn’t this an overcorrection?” The word hung in the damp air of the tent. Overcorrection. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the canvas. My mother stared at Callahan, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “An overcorrection?” she repeated, stepping out from behind the desk. Her voice was terrifyingly low. “Do you have any idea what she did when she was twelve years old?” Callahan remained silent. Instead of explaining, my mother took a deep breath, forcing her features back into a state of chilling calm. “If she likes hiding in the woods, she can stay in the woods. Let’s see how long her stubbornness lasts in the cold.” Callahan stood his ground. His lips parted, but before he could push any further, the tent flap flew open. Kelsey ducked inside, out of breath. “Captain, someone is here to see you.” My mother’s lips curved into a bitter, knowing smile. She shot Callahan a look of pure vindication. “See? What did I tell you? She was faking. She got tired of the rain and came crawling back. I told you, she just needs to learn a lesson. The more you cater to her, the more she manipulates you.” Suddenly, the heavy canvas door was ripped open from the outside. A gust of wind drove rain deep into the tent, splattering mud across the tactical maps. Major Henderson, the base commander, stood in the doorway. He was thoroughly soaked, his face a terrifying shade of gray. He looked directly at my mother, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Why did you abandon a recruit in the field? Search and Rescue just pulled a body out of the ravine. She’s wearing one of our uniforms.”

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The delivery room was a vacuum of fluorescent lights and the sharp, cloying scent of antiseptic. Pitocin pulsed through my veins, an artificial rhythm that triggered waves of agony, pulling at my midsection like an anchor dragging through silt. Wes leaned in then. He didn’t offer a hand to hold or a word of comfort. Instead, a jagged, predatory smile ghosted across his lips. His voice was a low crawl, like a secret whispered in a graveyard. “I have something to show you, Cassie.” He pulled out his phone with agonizing slowness. The screen flickered to life, displaying a family portrait. There was Bridget—my best friend, my maid of honor—radiant and glowing, cradling an infant while two toddlers clung to her knees. Wes stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist with a proprietary warmth I hadn’t felt in years. “These are my children with Bridget,” he whispered, his eyes locked on mine as a contraction crested. “Three kids in five years. Turns out she’s a lot more fertile than you ever were.” I stared at the image. The sight of Bridget nestled in his embrace made the world tilt. The physical pain of the labor suddenly felt distant, muffled by a crushing, psychic numbness. “Being with a pregnant woman is… an experience,” he continued, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone, his tone dripping with a sick, casual intimacy. “Bridget is a natural. It felt like every time I looked at her, she was carrying again. You really don’t compare.” A muffled sound came from the observation window. I forced my head to turn, my neck creaking. There was Bridget, standing on her tiptoes, waving a hand toward the glass. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her lips moving in a silent, mocking “Go, girl.” My stomach lurched. Wes leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear, a nauseating contrast to the clinical cold of the room. “Half an hour before they wheeled you in here, she was still in my bed,” he bragged, his voice thick with a twisted pride. “I had to shower her off me just to make it to your bedside.” Then, as if flipping a switch, his face softened into a mask of feigned regret. He patted the back of my hand. “I still care about you, Cassie. That’s why I’m being honest.” “Now, this baby… have it if you want. Don’t if you don’t. It’s your call.” His words were a scalpel, precision-engineered to bypass my skin and slice straight through my soul. The numbness shattered. A fresh contraction ripped through me, more violent than the last, and I felt the hot sting of tears mingling with the sweat at my temples. … The searing, tearing pain between my legs was the only thing tethering me to reality. This wasn’t a fever dream. Wes wasn’t joking. “Have you decided? The ball’s in your court.” He stood over me, looming like a mountain, his tone as casual as if he were asking what I wanted for dinner. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Despite the agony in my abdomen, I reached out and gripped his sleeve, my knuckles white. “Why…” I choked out, my voice trembling with a desperate, stubborn need for an answer. “Why tell me now?” Wes’s thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a bead of cold sweat. His gaze was a confusing cocktail of guilt and liberation. “Keeping up the act for five years… it’s exhausting, Cassie. We’re both tired.” “Bridget is your best friend. She didn’t mind you keeping the title of Mrs. Porter. She never wanted to hurt you by telling you.” “But I’m the one who felt it was wrong. She’s given me child after child, and keeping her and the kids in the shadows? It’s not fair to them.” A sob escaped me, jagged and bitter. I laughed through the tears. “So what? You want me to just step aside?” Seeing me break seemed to startle him for a second. He shook his head. “You’re the wife who helped me build this empire from the dirt. That doesn’t change. But going forward, I want a dual-family setup. Both of you. Equals.” “Just push the kid out first. We’ll figure the rest out later.” He shrugged my hand off. “Wes! No! That’s never happening!” I screamed. The only response was the heavy thud of the door closing behind him. A wave of absolute, bone-deep agony rolled over me. A sudden, hot gush of fluid followed. In the background, I heard the frantic, pitying shouts of the nurses. “Mrs. Porter! Stay with us! You need to push!” Mrs. Porter. I twisted my lips into a grotesque, bloody smile. The first time he called me that, he was blushing, unable to look me in the eye, telling me he knew he’d marry me the moment he saw my face. The second time, he was on one knee, holding a ring that caught the light like a promise, swearing he’d give me the stars. And the third time, he used it to tell me he was sleeping with my best friend. The world began to blur. The rhythmic screaming of the monitors blended with the shouting voices until it all became a dull roar in my ears. When I finally drifted back to consciousness, my hand instinctively went to my stomach. It was flat. Empty. “The baby… he didn’t make it through the delivery. I’m so sorry for your loss.” The nurse kept her eyes on the floor, unable to look me in the eye. It took a long time to find my voice. It sounded like it had been dragged over broken glass. “Who signed… the consent forms?” The nurse hesitated, then handed me the clipboard. There, in a shaky, distorted hand stained with a drop of blood, was my own name: Cassie Porter. While my child and I were fighting for our lives, Wes must have been elsewhere, tangled in the sheets with someone else. The door swung open, and Bridget rushed in. Seeing my puffy, bloodshot eyes, she lunged toward the bed. Her designer nails dug into my arm. “Cassie… oh god, you’re young. You can have another one. Don’t give up.” I slowly turned my head to look at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” “My baby is gone, and you’ve managed to pop out three.” Her pupils constricted. “You know?” When I didn’t answer, her lips began to tremble in a practiced show of defense. “Wes and I… it was an accident, Cassie. You have to listen to me—” An accident? What kind of accident results in three children in five years? What kind of accident makes a husband change his life insurance beneficiary from his wife to her? I was the fool. I was the one who let her stomp all over my marriage while I smiled and thanked her for the company. The memory of her faux-concern—the hidden smirks behind my back—ignited a fire in my chest. I grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from the nightstand and hurled it at that beautiful, lying face. The sound of shattering glass coincided with a man’s sharp cry. Wes had stepped in, throwing his arms around Bridget to shield her. When he turned back to me, blood was already beginning to seep from a cut on his forehead. “Take your anger out on me!” he roared, his voice thick with protective fury. “Don’t you dare touch her!” His eyes, once so full of warmth for me, were now ice-cold. “Bridget has always put you first! She never tried to take your place! She sacrificed everything for you.” “With a friend like her, Cassie, how the hell are you still so ungrateful?” I stared at him, letting his words sink in. Ungrateful. I thought about the night I pulled him from the wreckage of a car, dragging him to the hospital, giving half my blood volume in a transfusion that nearly killed me. I thought about six years of marriage without a child, while they were playing house in the dark. And they had the nerve to say she put me first? I wiped my face with the back of my hand, scrubbing away the last of the weakness. “Get out,” I rasped. “Both of you. I never want to see you again.” “Cassie… just listen—” “GET OUT!” The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by my ragged, desperate breathing. Wes gave me one long, hard look before taking Bridget’s hand and leading her out. As the door swung shut, I didn’t miss the flash of a triumphant smile on Bridget’s face. I collapsed back into the pillows. My throat felt raw, a familiar itch returning. I had quit smoking six years ago for Wes. I needed it now. The moment the nicotine hit my lungs, the door opened again. Wes walked in, a bandage on his head, carrying a takeout bag. He moved with practiced ease, opening containers and blowing on the soup—the picture of a devoted husband. Months ago, this would have moved me to tears. Now, I only realized he had likely done this for Bridget three times over. He was an expert at the “new mother” routine. He plucked the cigarette from my hand and took a drag himself, his expression softening for a fleeting second. “Don’t smoke. You’re not well.” “Why her?” I asked. “Six years ago, when the Porter family went bankrupt… she was the one who saw you pushed into the mud. She was the one who watched them tie you to the back of a car and drag you. Have you forgotten that?” Wes didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the wall, then shook his head. “She was young. She was just playing.” “She wasn’t the only one hurting me back then,” he added quietly. “And besides… she’s the one who saved me later.” According to him, he had recognized her the moment I introduced them. At first, he wanted revenge. He wanted to break her the way she’d broken him. But then he saw her after her own family’s ruin—working at a dive bar, being harassed by old men, struggling to survive. He felt a sudden, twisted kinship with her. He couldn’t stand to see her suffer, and her “quiet strength” won him over. They reconciled in secret and ended up in bed. Meanwhile, I—the woman who had actually protected his dignity and his life—was relegated to the role of the oblivious wife. “Is she really that good in bed?” I asked, my voice a hollow husk. “Is that why you can’t let go?” Wes was silent. He blew out a cloud of smoke and sighed. “I have her name tattooed on me, Cassie. In places you’ll never see. When things get… intense, it’s her name I’m thinking of. It’s a rush.” “The wife who built the business with you is great, sure. But after a while, it gets stale. You should understand that.” I closed my eyes. It felt like being carved up by a dull blade. Six years ago, I fell for him because he reminded me of my first love. When we met again and he was failing, I used my parents’ retirement fund and their house to back his first investment. When he was threatened by thugs for his business plans, I was the one who stood in front of the knives so he could escape and make the meeting. I gave him everything for six years. And all I got back was “stale.” “I didn’t mean for it to become this,” Wes said, his voice drifting into a memory. “Until I found out… she was the one who dragged me to the hospital. The one who saved my life. That’s when I decided I’d give her everything. The house, the money, the kids…” “At first, she felt guilty because of you. She said no. I had to keep her locked in my penthouse for weeks until she finally gave in.” He chuckled, a sound of pure, selfish satisfaction. I smiled, a thin, bitter line. I had never told him it was me who saved him because I didn’t want him to feel indebted to me. I wanted him to love me for me. I had paved the way for Bridget to steal my history. I took a deep breath and handed him the papers I had prepared. He was busy texting Bridget and didn’t even look up. “What’s this?” “Transfer papers. I want a different hospital.” He looked at me then, surprised by my composure. He took the pen from his pocket and signed them with a flourish. “Cassie, look. You’re getting older, and you just lost the baby. I know you’re not stupid enough to actually divorce me.” “When you get out, Bridget will take care of you. I hope by then, you’ve come to your senses.” He tossed the signed agreement onto the bed. Before he walked out, he gave me one last look of condescending pity. “You should learn how to be a more gracious wife, Cassie.” The door clicked shut. The wind from the hallway ruffled the edge of the paper. Soon, I wouldn’t be his wife at all. A week later, I checked myself out. The lobby was crowded. Bridget was there, leaning on Wes’s arm. When she saw me, she hurried over, trying to take my hand. “Cassie! Are you going home today?” I sidestepped her. My eyes drifted to her stomach. “What? Pregnant again?” She stiffened, sharing a look with Wes, then pulled me aside. “He’s… a little aggressive,” she whispered, her voice a mock-confession. “He won’t leave me alone, even now.” She feigned a gasp, tapping her cheek. “Oh, I’m terrible! Why am I telling you this? I know it’s been ages since he’s touched you.” She stood there, beaming, waiting for me to crumble. She had every reason to smile. I had been the ultimate mark. For years, she told me she was sickly and needed rest. I gave her my guest house, hired her the best doctors, and bought her the finest supplements. All while she was sleeping in my bed and birthing my husband’s children in my own home. When she was a wealthy socialite, I ignored her cruelty. When her father went broke and she was selling drinks, I spent my meager savings to help her meet her quotas. And when I was the one lying in a hospital bed after giving blood to save Wes, she had called me an idiot. “Why would you risk your life for a broke loser?” she’d asked. Now, that “loser” was a mogul, and she had used my identity to claim him. Wes coughed awkwardly, sensing the tension. “My parents don’t know about… the loss yet. Why don’t you take Bridget’s youngest home with you? It’ll make them happy to see a baby.” I stared at him, stunned. He had triggered my premature labor. He had effectively killed my child, and now he had the audacity to ask me to parade his mistress’s child in front of my parents? I didn’t argue. You can’t reason with a monster. At 6:00 PM, I arrived at my parents’ house. I was rehearsing how to tell them about the pregnancy and the tragedy. My mother has a weak heart; I had kept so much from her. Suddenly, the front door swung open. A shower of confetti exploded, and my parents appeared, beaming with joy. They pushed me toward Wes, who was already standing inside. They pointed toward Bridget, who was sitting on the sofa. “You young people and your romance,” my mother laughed. “Celebrating your anniversary like this…” I couldn’t hear them. My eyes were locked on the infant in Bridget’s arms. The baby was about a month old. He was wearing my baby’s shoes. My baby’s clothes. My baby’s hand-knitted cap. Around his neck hung the silver locket I had bought for my child. One half was around my neck. The other half was supposed to be in my baby’s… urn. Cold realization washed over me. Wes gripped my shoulder, his fingers digging in like a warning. “I learned a few recipes from your dad,” Wes said. “Let’s sit down and have a family dinner.” My father was busy learning how to mix formula. My mother was cooing at the infant. Bridget sat next to Wes, their posture sickeningly domestic. My throat felt like it had been sliced. I couldn’t speak. What could I say? That the baby wasn’t a guest, but the evidence of a five-year betrayal? That they were flaunting their affair in my parents’ living room? They had used my dead child’s belongings to dress a bastard. They knew I wouldn’t speak up because of my mother’s heart condition. My fingernails bit into my palms until I drew blood. I turned and vomited all over Wes’s expensive suit. “Cassie! What’s wrong with you?” my mother cried, rushing over. Then she stopped, her face lighting up with a sudden, wild hope. “Are you… are you expecting?” I had been. Now I was empty. My mother, overwhelmed with joy, reached out and took Bridget’s baby, holding him out to me. “Here, hold him! It’s good luck. Maybe it’ll mean a positive test tomorrow.” I didn’t move. But Bridget did. She took the baby back and leaned in close to my ear. “You’re so pathetic, Cassie. Your baby is dead. Now you have to settle for holding mine.” She fingered the silver locket around the baby’s neck and gave me a poisonous smile. “I forgot to tell you. This locket belonged to your kid. And the heart beating in my baby’s chest? That came from yours, too.” “I was worried about rejection at first. But Wes said… using a sibling’s heart was the only way to be sure.” The world turned black. My legs gave out. When my vision cleared, my hands were locked around Bridget’s throat. I wanted her dead. I wanted the world to end. “Cassie! Stop it! What are you doing?” “Cassie, you’ve lost your mind!” The lights were blinding. Shadows swirled. Wes’s face, contorted with rage, loomed over me. He slapped me—once, twice—but I wouldn’t let go. My mother was pulling at my fingers, tears streaming down her face. “Honey, please! Bridget has had it hard too, you can’t treat her like this!” My father was pleading, “She’s your best friend, Cassie. Don’t do this.” The image of my baby’s pale, lifeless face flashed in my mind, replaced by Bridget’s mocking sneer. I let go of her throat and swung, my palm connecting with her face with a crack that echoed through the room. Before I could land another blow, a heavy boot slammed into my chest, throwing me backward. Pain exploded in my ribs. Everything turned red. I couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears. I could only see the shoes. Wes was wearing the red-soled loafers I had searched all over the city to find for him—his wedding shoes. The shoes that had stood beside me while he made his vows. Now he was using them to trample over me in my own home. I gasped for air, clutching my chest. “Why… why did you take my baby’s heart?” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, righteous anger. “She saved my life once. I saved her child’s life in return. Don’t you think that’s fair?” Fair. Who was going to make it fair for my child? I crawled forward, my blood-stained hand clutching his pant leg. I looked up into his confused, arrogant eyes. “Has it ever occurred to you…” I whispered, every word a jagged shard of glass. “…that you have the wrong woman?” “The person who saved you—the person who gave you her blood, who carried you for miles in the blistering heat to get you to a hospital—it wasn’t Bridget. It was me.”

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The system’s piercing alarm exploded in my ears at the exact moment Declan walked into the penthouse living room, a young woman trailing hesitantly behind him. She had my eyes. Or rather, she had the eyes I used to have—stubborn, entirely unyielding, anchoring her to the center of the vast, marble-floored room. Looking at her was like staring at a ghost of my own youth, back before I learned how to lose. “Host! He’s cheating! Your days of suffering are finally coming to an end!” the System shrieked in my mind, its robotic voice vibrating with electric glee. I bit the inside of my cheek hard to kill the smile threatening to break across my face. Taking a shallow breath, I arranged my features into a mask of pure, devastated disbelief and rushed down the sweeping glass staircase. Declan’s gaze washed over me. It was cold, clinical, entirely devoid of the man I used to know. Without so much as a shift in his posture, he announced that the girl would be moving into the master suite. “What about me? Declan…” I forced blood to my eyes, letting my voice splinter into a pathetic, weeping tremble. He didn’t even blink. “Take the guest room.” I nearly laughed out loud right then and there. The guest room was right next to the service elevator. Escaping this gilded cage had just gotten infinitely easier. 1 This was my fifth year trapped by Declan’s side since my rebirth. In this life, I was bound to a “Tragic Heroine Survival System.” Its mandate was chillingly simple: Make the male lead despise you. Accumulate Disgust Points. Break free from his control. Save yourself. That was when I learned the horrifying truth. My reality was nothing more than a dark romance novel, and the man I had grown up with—my fiancé, my husband—was the obsessive, psychopathic male lead. In my previous life, I hadn’t known any of this. I only knew that the man I married had morphed into a monster. Desperate to escape his suffocating control, I crushed sleeping pills into his scotch, hoping to steal my passport from his biometric safe while he was unconscious. The drugs hadn’t affected him at all. Instead, he cornered me against the glass railing of our balcony. With the icy wind of the East River whipping my hair, he took me right there against the cold glass, forcing me to watch the glittering city skyline until dawn broke. His lips had brushed the shell of my ear, his voice a lethal whisper. “Try anything like that again, Mrs. Crawford, and I will ruin your brother. I will tear him apart piece by piece.” Paralyzed by the threat to my family, I abandoned all thoughts of rebellion. I pivoted, playing the role of a fragile, helpless socialite. I became entirely dependent on him, hoping he would tire of the burden. But I had miscalculated. The more helpless I acted, the more I wept, the more it ignited some dark, twisted excitement within him. Declan was deeply, fundamentally sick. Pushed past the brink of sanity, I eventually fought back. I caused scenes. I screamed. I tried to make him hate me. At a high-society gala, I threw a glass of hot tea directly into his face in front of New York’s elite. He didn’t yell. He didn’t flinch. He just pulled a silk square from his pocket, slowly wiped his jaw, and smiled at the stunned crowd. “My wife is incredibly spirited,” he had murmured. That night, he locked me away. He systematically dismantled my family’s empire, cutting off all their business ties. Isolated, terrified for my parents and brother, and swallowed by a depression so heavy it felt like lead in my veins, I simply gave up. I starved myself to death in that beautiful, silent room. When I opened my eyes and found myself reborn, the pieces clicked into place. Declan was a textbook psychopath. He didn’t want a partner; he wanted the thrill of the break. He relished the slow, agonizing process of domesticating a wild thing, watching a fierce woman lose her edges against his iron will. But what happens if the wild thing rolls over and begs for the leash from day one? With the System as my guide, I decided to find out. I transformed into Manhattan’s most cloying, artificial, nauseatingly desperate trophy wife. 2 “Host, the light is at the end of the tunnel. He has someone else!” Five years. Five agonizing years of playing the fool, and the day had finally come. For half a decade, I had been his shadow. A cloying, suffocating perfume he couldn’t wash off. I smothered him with manufactured affection, suffocating him with I love yous until the words lost all meaning. Watching his interest in me slowly curdle into apathy, I had managed to push his Disgust Meter to a meager 15%. Then, the System delivered the miracle: Declan had taken an unusual interest in a new intern. Her name was Paige. She was a scholarship student funded by Crawford Industries, now working on the bottom rung of his corporate ladder. She had made a critical error, and when Declan reprimanded her, she had stared back at him with a fierce, unyielding defiance. That rebellious spark had caught his eye. She was exactly who I used to be in my past life. A new, brilliant plan bloomed in my mind. I hired a corporate spy for an exorbitant sum to permanently delete a crucial proposal Paige was responsible for, giving fate a little shove. When the time came, Paige faced termination. Before Declan could unleash his wrath, I stormed into his sprawling, glass-walled office and slapped Paige squarely across the cheek. “How could you be so utterly useless?” I screeched, fully leaning into the role of the venomous, jealous wife. “My husband and his executives spent weeks on that project! A cheap, pathetic little charity case like you couldn’t pay for this damage if you sold your own organs!” Paige clutched her red cheek, a fire igniting in her eyes. She glared at me, then shifted her gaze to the silent man behind the mahogany desk. Her voice was crystal clear, though it shook with raw adrenaline. “Mr. Crawford, the mistake is mine, and I will take full responsibility. But what gives your wife the right to strip me of my dignity?” Declan’s long fingers tapped rhythmically against the polished wood. His gaze bypassed me entirely, locking onto Paige. I knew that look. I knew it intimately. It was the gaze of a predator discovering a fascinating new prey. “Valerie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Apologize to her.” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest in exaggerated betrayal. “You want me to apologize to an intern? We grew up together, Declan! You’re taking her side over your own wife?” “Apologize.” The word was a gavel striking wood. “Congratulations, Host. The psychopathic male lead’s Disgust Meter has risen to 19%!” The System’s chime was the sweetest music I’d ever heard. I was on the right track. “I’m sorry!” I wailed, throwing my hands over my face as if my world had shattered, and bolted from the office. Just before the heavy doors clicked shut, I stole a glance over my shoulder. Declan had stepped around his desk. He was standing in front of Paige, gently smoothing the collar of her blouse that I had rumpled. He didn’t come home that night. The System gleefully informed me he had taken Paige out to get her cheek treated. 3 The next day, Declan returned at his usual hour. I immediately arranged a silver tray and marched into his study, a saccharine smile plastered across my face. “Darling, I had the chef brew your favorite espresso roast. It’s the perfect temperature.” Declan was staring at his monitors, a crease between his brows. He didn’t look up, merely waving a hand. “Leave it. Get out.” “I can’t do that. You’ve been working so hard, you need a break.” I slipped behind his leather chair, resting my hands on his broad shoulders, and began to massage the tense muscles. “Are you still mad about yesterday? I’m so sorry, sweetie. I promise I won’t hit anyone ever again~” I cooed, fighting the urge to gag on my own dialogue. Declan froze. His eyes drifted from the screen to my face, heavy with a calculating scrutiny. In my past life, that look would have sent ice water through my veins. I always felt like he was dissecting my soul. But right now, all I was thinking about was the fact that I had pumped six shots of vanilla syrup into that espresso. I hoped the sugar shock would make his teeth ache. “Valerie.” “Hmm?” I blinked, the picture of innocence. “You know I drink my coffee black. Is this your idea of an apology?” I shrank back, letting my eyes well up with instant, manufactured tears. “I just love you so much, Declan. I wanted to give you something sweet. I wanted to share the best things with you.” Declan let out a low, derisive scoff. “You’re overstepping. I don’t want anyone wandering in and out of my study. Understood?” Understood. You son of a bitch, I thought. Before Paige showed up, I practically lived in this room. Now he was drawing boundaries. I let out a pathetic little whimper. Before I could layer on another apology, he reached up and shoved my hands off his shoulders. “Get out. Don’t make me ask a third time.” The second the study door clicked shut behind me, I wiped the fake tears away, practically buzzing with adrenaline. “System! Did the bar move? That sneer was absolute peak disgust!” “Hold steady, Host! Disgust Meter is at 25%. Keep up the good work!” 4 Over the next few weeks, Declan didn’t just spare Paige from being fired; he began taking her everywhere. To high-level meetings, to elite dinners. I didn’t slack off either. I fully embodied the unhinged, love-crazed wife. My relentless antics drove his Disgust Meter straight to 52%. But tonight, he delivered a masterpiece of a surprise. He brought Paige back to our Hamptons estate. I listened from the top of the stairs as he coolly instructed the estate manager. “Her landlord evicted her. She has nowhere to go. Prepare the master suite for her.” He paused, adding with deliberate cruelty, “Make sure my wife and I are in separate rooms moving forward.” Yes! No more sleeping next to the enemy! I stood in the hallway, looking down at the staff carrying her cheap bags, my heart throwing a literal parade. “Host, whatever you do, don’t smile. He’s right behind you!” I instantly dropped my shoulders, twisting my face into a portrait of absolute devastation as I turned to meet his glacial stare. “Declan, I’m used to the mattress in the master bedroom. I won’t be able to sleep anywhere else.” I bit my lower lip, letting my voice crack under the weight of feigned heartbreak. His eyes swept over my face. “Since when did you become so high-maintenance?” I lowered my head, the picture of defeat. “I’m just so terrified you’re going to leave me. Having Miss Paige move into our bedroom… it makes me so scared…” A sharp, mocking laugh echoed from behind him. Paige crossed her arms and stepped into the light. “It’s just a bedroom, Mrs. Crawford. Is it really worth the tears?” She tilted her chin up. “Or is crying the only trick you’ve learned from being a trophy wife?” I paused. The little intern has claws. She was definitely still holding a grudge over that slap. Perfect. I let the tears fall harder, thick and fast. “This is my home! You steal my room, and you have the nerve to insult me?” Contempt flashed in Paige’s eyes, paired with that familiar, reckless defiance. “Steal? If Mr. Crawford hadn’t practically dragged me here, I would never have set foot in this mausoleum. If it’s such a tragedy, I’ll go sleep on a park bench. I wouldn’t want to ruin the view.” I peeked at Declan through my wet lashes. His eyes were entirely fixed on Paige. There was a dark, possessive hunger pooling in his irises. “You’re staying in the master suite. Do not test my patience, Paige,” Declan said, his voice low, vibrating with an authority that left no room for argument. Paige let out a sharp breath, her face tight with frustration, but she didn’t argue. She just turned her head, staring out the massive bay windows into the night. I mentally applauded. Classic enemies-to-lovers tension. She knew exactly how to play the game without crossing the line. “As for you, Valerie,” Declan’s voice snapped like a whip as he turned back to me. “She was evicted because you sent your private investigators to harass her landlord. You owe her this. Keep your head down, and stay away from her.” I reached out, trembling fingers grabbing the cuff of his suit jacket. “I can compromise. But I just want to see your face when I wake up. Can we please not sleep in separate rooms?” He stepped back. My fingers closed around empty air. “Go to your room. Stop being a nuisance.” “I only do these things because I love you!” I cried. “Enough,” he warned. “I… I understand.” I looked like a widow mourning at a gravesite. “System, he’s treating me like radioactive waste. Give me the numbers.” “Report! Disgust Meter is at 55%. Host, your future is looking bright!” Psychopaths really hated being smothered. As long as I was a suffocating, pathetic mess, he would do the heavy lifting of pushing me away. Strike while the iron is hot. 5 To max out the meter as fast as possible, I escalated my campaign against Paige. One afternoon, perfectly timing it with Declan’s arrival, I “accidentally” knocked Paige’s freshly printed master’s thesis into the estate’s massive reflecting pool. “Oh, my! My hand just slipped. You can just print another one, right?” I offered a dazzlingly hollow apology. Paige didn’t even yell. She looked at the sinking pages, kicked off her heels, and plunged straight into the freezing water. “Valerie! What the hell is wrong with you?” Declan strode across the terrace, shoving me aside. I threw myself onto the manicured lawn with a dramatic shriek, holding my wrist as if it were shattered. He didn’t even spare me a glance. He hauled a shivering, soaked Paige out of the water, immediately stripping off his cashmere coat to wrap it around her trembling shoulders. “When does this end?” He looked down at me, and for the first time, the icy indifference in his eyes had melted into pure, unadulterated revulsion. “I won’t stop!” I screamed, tilting my face to the sky, letting the tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m sick of this! Don’t you think she’s taking up too much of your time? You used to only look at me! Now you don’t even see me! I hate her! I wish she would just disappear from the face of the earth!” “The only one who needs to disappear is you.” Leaving the words hanging in the air like an executioner’s axe, Declan picked Paige up in his arms, ignoring her weak protests, and carried her inside. At that exact moment, the System chimed its heavenly bell: “Disgust Meter surges to 70%! Host, that hysterical breakdown was Oscar-worthy. 10/10.” Declan’s tolerance for me had finally breached its limit. He stopped coming home altogether. When he wasn’t at the corporate headquarters, he was traveling. Paige was always by his side. Her status elevated by the day. Even the estate staff started whispering, placing bets on how long it would take for the “crazy wife” to be tossed out onto the street. I couldn’t wait. “Host, only 30% left,” the System urged. “Just pull off one more massive stunt. Break him. Make him demand the divorce.” I nodded silently in my dark bedroom. It was time for the grand finale. I had to strike before he grew numb to my hysteria. 6 Crawford Industries was hosting its grand anniversary gala at The Plaza. It was the event of the season. Board members, Wall Street titans, and New York’s most vicious gossip columnists would all be there. If I caused an irredeemable, catastrophic scene on that stage… A wicked smile stretched across my face. The night of the gala, I didn’t arrive with Declan. I showed up two hours late. When I pushed open the gilded double doors of the grand ballroom, Declan was at the podium, delivering his keynote address. Paige stood just a few feet away from him, clutching a clipboard, looking every inch the indispensable right-hand woman. I took a deep breath, hyped myself up into a state of absolute mania, and sprinted down the center aisle. “Declan! Crawford!” My shrill, weeping scream tore through the room. The acoustics of the ballroom picked it up, shattering the elegant silence. Hundreds of heads snapped toward me. Ignoring the horrified gasps of the city’s elite, I stormed up the stairs and snatched the microphone right out of the MC’s hand. “How long are you going to keep lying to me?! Today is my birthday, and you didn’t just forget—you brought this homewrecker here to flaunt her in my face!” Tears streaming, mascara running, I pointed a shaking finger at Paige. I let my face twist into a grotesque mask of pure, unhinged jealousy. Declan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He stepped forward to grab the mic. “Have you lost your mind? Look at where you are. Get off the stage!” “No!” I dodged his grasp and lunged at Paige. Right behind her stood a ten-tier champagne tower. Acting completely feral, I raised my hand to strike her. Paige instinctively stepped back. I grabbed her arm—making it look like a struggle—and shoved her backward with all my might. CRASH. With the deafening roar of shattering crystal, the twenty-thousand-dollar champagne tower collapsed. Glass and vintage Dom Pérignon exploded everywhere. Declan grabbed Paige’s waist, yanking her out of the worst of it so she wasn’t cut, but she was drenched. Her designer gown and heels were ruined, her hair plastered to her face. The ballroom erupted into chaos. The blinding flash of paparazzi cameras strobed like lightning, immortalizing my psychotic breakdown. Sensing the climax had arrived, I reached into my clutch and pulled out a thick stack of photographs. I had hired a PI to tail them all week. The shots were blurry but damning—Paige entering our Hamptons estate, Declan opening the car door for her, late-night dinners. I threw the photos into the air like confetti. “Look at him! Look at the great CEO of Crawford Industries! He leaves his lawful wife to rot while he plays house with a college girl! He moved her into my bedroom! He forced me into the guest room!” The room dissolved into a roaring frenzy of whispers and gasps. Declan’s face had drained of all color, his eyes dark as pitch. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the centerpiece of the stage—a 1920s vintage Victrola phonograph. Declan had won it at an auction in London. He prized the damn thing. I grabbed an unbroken bottle of champagne by the neck and swung it like a baseball bat directly into the antique wood. “If I can’t be happy, none of you get to be happy!” CRACK. The heavy wood splintered and caved in with a sickening crunch. The brass horn bent, groaning under the impact. I looked at Declan. His hands were trembling. “Valerie.” He said my name so quietly, yet it was infinitely more terrifying than a scream. “As of tonight, you no longer exist in this city.” His voice was a razor blade. “Get out. Don’t ever let me see your face again. If you do, I will show you what a living hell truly is.” He didn’t threaten to lock me up like in my past life. He looked at me as if even laying eyes on me made him feel diseased. I collapsed into the puddle of champagne and glass, sobbing hysterically, gasping for air as if my heart had been ripped from my chest. Two massive security guards hooked their arms under my armpits and dragged me out of the ballroom. As the doors slammed shut behind me, the most beautiful sound in the universe rang in my ears: “80%… 95%… 99%… 100%!” “Ding! The psychopathic male lead’s Disgust Meter has reached its maximum capacity. He has initiated the termination of the marriage. The System decrees: Survival Mission Accomplished!” I lay sprawled on the cold marble floor of the hotel lobby, my shoulders shaking violently. To the terrified hotel staff watching, I was a broken woman weeping in sheer agony. In reality, holding back my laughter was causing me physical pain. I was finally free!!!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “434820”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel